


Our Divinest Senses: Fandom Friends Edition

by alexxphoenix42, ChrisCalledMeSweetie, DaisyFairy, elwinglyre, Iwantthatcoat, PatPrecieux



Series: Divinest Senses [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Are Foot Jobs a Thing?, BDSM, Bisexual John, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Can you decipher them?, Coded Clues, Creepy Mycroft, Cuddling, Developing Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Food Play, Frottage, Games, Hand Jobs, Happily Ever After, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Inexperienced Sherlock, John is all tied up, Kinky double chocolate-caramel sex, Light Angst, Light Bondage, M/M, Masturbation, Mental Health Issues, Multiple Endings, Multiple Orgasms, Musgrave Ritual, Naughty time with ice cream, Oral Sex, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Pirate Captain Sherlock, Prostate Massage, Puzzles, Rimming, Sex Toys, Sexual Roleplay, Shower Sex, Story within a Story, Top John, Top Sherlock, Trapped on an island, Well they are now..., black silk cords, discussion of ideas of suicide, escape room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-15 18:28:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 51,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29688123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexxphoenix42/pseuds/alexxphoenix42, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChrisCalledMeSweetie/pseuds/ChrisCalledMeSweetie, https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaisyFairy/pseuds/DaisyFairy, https://archiveofourown.org/users/elwinglyre/pseuds/elwinglyre, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat, https://archiveofourown.org/users/PatPrecieux/pseuds/PatPrecieux
Summary: After being sectioned, John and Sherlock met for the first time when they were sentenced to six months as the only residents of a secret government facility on one of the uninhabited Shetland Islands. Forced to work together to play a series of elaborate games set up by Mycroft, they gradually became friends, and then lovers. Now, rather than persisting in their attempts to escape, they have decided to use this time as an all-expense-paid Sex Holiday.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Divinest Senses [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/534016
Comments: 62
Kudos: 17





	1. Prologue, by ChrisCalledMeSweetie

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Podfixx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Podfixx/gifts).



> In 2016, when I began writing this story, I never could have imagined where it would lead. If you’ve seen the film Clue, you’ll be familiar with the concept of a mystery with multiple endings. Now, imagine that, but with each ending penned by one of your favorite writers. Toss in a boatload of Johnlock sexytimes, and you’ve got the fic before you. I hope you’ll enjoy it every bit as much as I have.  
> ~ ChrisCalledMeSweetie

In the words of Emily Dickinson:

_Much Madness is divinest Sense_  
_To a discerning Eye_  
_Much Sense - the starkest Madness_  
_’Tis the Majority_  
_In this, as all, prevail_  
_Assent — and you are sane_  
_Demur — you’re straightway dangerous_  
_And handled with a Chain_

And, in the words of Lao Tzu:

_Love is of all passions the strongest, for it attacks simultaneously the head, the heart, and the senses._

…

After being sectioned, John and Sherlock met for the first time when they were sentenced to six months as the only residents of a secret government facility on one of the uninhabited Shetland Islands. Forced to work together to play a series of elaborate games set up by Mycroft, they gradually became friends, and then lovers. Now, rather than persisting in their attempts to escape, they have decided to use this time as an all-expense-paid Sex Holiday.

This is the sequel to [Divinest Sense](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6627280), written by ChrisCalledMeSweetie and [recorded by Podfixx](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23901967). If you haven’t yet read or listened to the original story, you might want to do so before continuing with this one. Unless you don’t really care about the plot, and are just here for the Sex Holiday. In which case, carry on…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We welcome your kind comments and kudos. 😊❤️😊


	2. Sense of Time, by ChrisCalledMeSweetie

John had lost all sense of time. The self-proclaimed sociopath in bed with him had turned out to be a consummate cuddler. What’s more, Sherlock — who up until yesterday had refrained from all sexual contact on the grounds that it wasn’t worth the trouble — also possessed a surprisingly healthy libido. So: cuddle, kiss, come, catnap, continue…

Time? Meaningless.

…

Sherlock awoke slowly, desperately trying to cling to the fragments of an incredible dream. John had been there, touching him. Whispering words of praise. Holding him close. Sherlock could still feel those arms around him. He never wanted it to end.

As he reluctantly returned to consciousness, Sherlock’s dream morphed into reality — a reality in which he was, indeed, wrapped in John’s arms. With a happy sigh, he snuggled closer. The chest beneath his cheek rumbled as John let out a sleepy hum.

“Is it morning?”

“Yes.”

“Are you going to let me out of bed today?”

“We’ll see…”

John chuckled, tugging Sherlock’s curls to draw his head back so they could gaze into each other’s eyes.

“Good morning.”

“It really is.”

…

Over breakfast, John finally brought up one of the loose ends that had been pushed to the back of his mind for the past couple of days. “You never did tell me how you figured out the clues that were supposed to be for me without asking for my help.”

“They weren’t for you. They were quotes from the book of John in the bible, which Mycroft so thoughtfully left in my bedside table drawer.”

“Ah. And where did they lead?”

“Inside the room marked _TO HELP YOU PASS THE TIME_ there are four cabinets with locks that resemble digital clocks. The chapter and verse number of each quote corresponds to the time to which to set each clock.”

“What’s in the cabinets?”

“Books, games, DVDs, and musical instruments.”

“Any more clues?”

“I’m not sure. I was somewhat… distracted… at the time.” 

Sherlock’s face clouded over, and John took his hand. “I’m sorry, love. I should have been honest with you from the start.”

“I’m sorry, too. I never should have suspected you of conspiring with my brother.”

“We were both idiots. But I think things worked out okay, don’t you?”

“I do.”

…

John stepped through the door labeled **TO HELP YOU PASS THE TIME** and glanced around the comfortable sitting room. “So you’ve already opened all of these cabinets, then?”

“All but one. I knew the codes, but I wasn’t sure which one went with which lock. I should have deduced that the one with the games would be _He must increase, but I must decrease_.”

Sherlock set the digital clock to 3:30, and opened the bulletproof glass door.

“Wow — this is quite a collection. Your brother has eclectic taste.” 

John scanned the shelves. Childhood favourites like Operation, Mousetrap, and Battleship shared space with classics like Chess, Backgammon, and Othello. Pens, paper, and several decks of cards sat next to a professional darts set. There were word games (Scrabble, Boggle) and logic games (Mastermind, Guess Who?) and random games (Trivial Pursuit, the Truth or Dare edition of Jenga). There were also no fewer than seven versions of Cluedo: Super Cluedo Challenge, Cluedo Vintage Edition, Cluedo Master Detective, Cluedo Super Sleuth, Cluedo Mysteries, a Cluedo card game, and a Cluedo DVD game. 

“These bring back memories,” Sherlock said, half to himself.

“I thought you told me you didn’t play with other children.”

“Mycroft doesn’t count. He’s seven years older than I am, so he had an unfair advantage for the first few years of my life, and after that he started cheating.”

John snorted. “You think you’re pretty good, eh?”

“I know I am.”

“We’ll see. I can be quite competitive…”

…

Sherlock had given the contents of the other cabinets a cursory inspection a couple of days ago, but now, with John by his side, he was ready to examine them more closely. In his emotionally compromised state, he had paid little attention to the television or DVDs. He was chagrined to realise that there was actually a complete entertainment centre, including a large collection of CDs, as well. 

“Oh, John Denver,” John said. “He’s one of my guilty pleasures. My dad used to listen to him all the time, so his songs always make me nostalgic.”

John popped in the CD and music began to fill the room.

“This is a waltz,” Sherlock said, surprised. He held out his hand to John. “Dance with me.”

“Seriously?”

“I never joke about dancing.” 

…

The familiar lyrics took on a new meaning as John stepped into Sherlock’s arms and allowed himself to be led.

_You fill up my senses_  
_Like a night in a forest_  
_Like the mountains in springtime_  
_Like a walk in the rain_  
_Like a storm in the desert_  
_Like a sleepy blue ocean_  
_You fill up my senses_  
_Come fill me again_

Sherlock danced like someone who was born to it, graceful and expressive. John smiled up at him and began to sing along:

_Come, let me love you_  
_Let me give my life to you_  
_Let me drown in your laughter_  
_Let me die in your arms_  
_Let me lay down beside you_  
_Let me always be with you_  
_Come, let me love you_  
_Come love me again_

With his usual brilliance, Sherlock had already learned the words to the first verse, so when they came around again he joined in with his rich, dark voice:

_You fill up my senses_  
_Like a night in a forest_  
_Like the mountains in springtime_  
_Like a walk in the rain_  
_Like a storm in the desert_  
_Like a sleepy blue ocean_  
_You fill up my senses_  
_Come fill me again_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We welcome your kind comments and kudos. 😊❤️😊


	3. Sense of Sight, by ChrisCalledMeSweetie

“Let’s go for a walk.”

“Sherlock, it’s pitch black outside, and barely above freezing.”

“Yes. And…?”

“And I think it might make more sense to wait until tomorrow, when we’ll be able to see where we’re going, and won’t be at risk of hypothermia.”

“But it won’t be the same.”

“No, it will be warmer, and light out.”

“But it won’t be the same as our first walk together.”

“Oh my god — you crazy romantic,” John said, grabbing Sherlock’s face and kissing him soundly.

Sherlock blushed. “Don’t tell anyone.”

“Who could I tell? In case you haven’t noticed, we’re on our own out here.”

“Perfect.”

…

After bundling up, John and Sherlock activated the dual retinal scanners that released the lock on the front door. As they stepped out into the night, Sherlock took John’s hand. They set off together, following the route they’d taken a week before.

The night was clear and crisp, the sky sprinkled with stars. John gazed up, searching for familiar constellations. There was Orion, there was Canis Major, there was Gemini, and there —

John involuntarily brought his hand to his mouth, frozen in wonder. Beside him, Sherlock stood transfixed. All around, the Northern Lights ribboned across the heavens in otherworldly shades of green, blue, and violet. 

John squeezed Sherlock’s hand, and received an answering pressure. They stood together, marvelling at the spectacle, until the Aurora Borealis had played itself out.

…

“That was the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen. Aren’t you glad you agreed to take a walk with me?”

“Yeah. That was amazing. Although the view in this bedroom right now isn’t too bad, either,” John said, giving Sherlock an appreciative look. “I’ll bet you could put on a show to rival the Northern Lights.”

Sherlock preened at the compliment. “Challenge accepted.”

“Ooh… Will you do a striptease for me?”

“If you’ll do something for me afterwards.”

“Do I dare ask?”

“I want to watch you touch yourself.”

John’s cock twitched at the heat in Sherlock’s voice. “Are you sure your brother doesn’t have any hidden cameras in here?”

“Positive.”

“Then how ‘bout if I don’t make you wait until afterwards?”

“Even better.”

Sherlock raised his hand to the top button of his shirt, splaying his long fingers across his throat in a sensual caress. He deftly undid one button, then another. John’s hand unconsciously fell to his crotch. 

“I may be the most observant man in Britain, but even I can’t see through fabric.”

“Oh, right.” 

John quickly shucked his trousers and pants, his eyes never leaving Sherlock. The man was gorgeous. Stunning. Exquisite. And here he was, unwrapping himself like the world’s best Christmas gift. John was mesmerised. 

…

As Sherlock slowly disrobed, he drank in the sight of John touching himself, his small hand firm around his swelling cock. There was so much information to catalogue: position, rhythm, pressure, speed, response. It was fascinating.

By the time Sherlock was naked, John’s foreskin was completely retracted, exposing his glans, glistening with pre-come. His hand was flying over his shaft. Sherlock took a step closer and stared, transfixed, as his slit gaped and then spurted semen in three explosive pulses. John continued to stroke, more slowly, as his cock pumped out more of the creamy fluid, which now ran in rivulets over his hand. At last, he stilled. 

Sherlock dragged his eyes up to John’s flushed face. “Now _that’s_ the most incredible thing I’ve ever seen.”

…

The following day found John and Sherlock once again out for a walk, this time in the scant warmth of February’s afternoon sun. They strolled at a leisurely pace, hand in hand, in companionable silence. 

It didn’t take long for them to reach the solid 20 foot wall that surrounded the island. John eyed the electric wires spaced out in front of it with mixed emotions. On the one hand, his body tensed at the memories of the painful shocks he’d received, and the despair he’d felt, wandering alone in the darkness. On the other hand, the electric fence had provided the catalyst that had sparked his first kiss with Sherlock. 

Maybe those experiences hadn’t been so different, after all. Both had short-circuited his brain and knocked him on his arse. In their own ways, both felt an awful lot like being struck by lightning.

…

Sherlock eyed the wall and the electric wires in front of it thoughtfully. A wall to keep out the rest of the idiotic world, allowing him to explore his relationship with John in peace, was a good thing. The electric fence, though, was another matter. That was clearly meant to keep him penned in, like an animal. Unacceptable. 

He and John had decided not to continue their attempts at escape, since, at least for the moment, they had everything they wanted and needed right here. However, choosing to remain on this island together didn’t preclude giving themselves the option of coming and going at will. And what better way to annoy Mycroft than by demonstrating that they could circumvent his little trap any time they wished, yet preferred to stay?

…

John was all in favour of Sherlock’s new plan. If he were being honest with himself, he’d have to admit that he’d be all in favour of just about anything Sherlock suggested at this point. He was ridiculously besotted.

 _Focus, John,_ he told himself. _New plan._ Out loud, he said, “So, what’s our next step?”

“The only door we haven’t been through is the one marked _Cold Storage._ Electric fencing is also known as hot wire, so I’m thinking _Cold_ might refer to switching off the power.”

“Makes sense. That lock has a numerical keypad, but we haven’t found any more clues. Do you think it could be the same as one of the ones we’ve already decoded?”

“Unlikely, but there’s no harm in trying.”

John and Sherlock returned home _(how bizarre,_ John thought, _that I’ve come to view this place as home)_ and typed in one set of numbers after another. To the surprise of neither, none of the previous combinations they’d used worked to unlock the door of the Cold Storage room.

“Without knowing how many digits are required, there are an infinite number of possibilities here. We’ll have to find another clue,” Sherlock said.

“Yeah. But where?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We welcome your kind comments and kudos. 😊❤️😊


	4. Sense of Play, by ChrisCalledMeSweetie

“It’s not actually possible for the victim to have done it, Sherlock.”

“Well, it’s the only logical solution.”

“It’s not in the rules.”

“Well, then, the rules are wrong!”

“I think we need to try a different game. There’s been no sign of the code we’re searching for in any of these versions of Cluedo, and if we don’t switch to something else, _I’m_ going to be the one whodunnit.”

“Fine. You pick, then.”

“How about Operation?”

“I think you have an unfair advantage there, _doctor.”_

“Right — because how to remove a Funny Bone is something I learned at Bart’s.”

Sherlock looked at John, John looked at Sherlock, and suddenly they were both giggling.

 _I’m happy,_ John realised. _Absurdly, deliriously happy._

Once John got his laughter under control, he opened the Operation box and handed the directions to Sherlock. “Here, you look through the rules for clues, while I set up our patient.”

Sherlock scanned the instruction sheet, but found nothing that might tell them how to get into the Cold Storage room. “I don’t see anything promising, but we might as well operate, since you’ve got him all prepped.”

It quickly became clear that John did, indeed, have an advantage. Bart’s may not have taught the removal of Spare Ribs or the Wish Bone, but John was quite adept with the Surgical Tweezers. He was pleased to note that the intermittent tremor he’d started experiencing in his left hand after being shot had completely disappeared since he’d met Sherlock.

John removed the final piece — Butterflies in the Stomach — with a flourish. “Ta da! I knew all those years of med school would be good for something one day.”

Sherlock acknowledged this with a tip of the head. “All right. You won that one. But I get to pick the next game. I challenge you to Battleship.”

“You’re on.”

…

Twenty minutes — and one very confused John Watson — later, they turned their plastic game units around to show each other.

“Hey!” John cried. “You’ve been moving your ships!”

“Of course I was moving them. What kind of Fleet Commander would leave his ships anchored in the path of enemy fire?”

“That’s cheating!”

“No, that’s playing strategically.”

“Sherlock, there are rules to these games. I know you’re aware of them, because I’ve watched you read the directions.”

“I was just checking them for clues. I didn’t think you’d expect me to follow them.”

“Hmph! I’m choosing the next game, and you had better play fair, or there will be consequences.”

“Sexy consequences?”

“Only if you follow the rules.”

“Fine. What do you want to play?”

“How about Jenga Truth or Dare?”

“I’m familiar with Jenga, but how does Truth or Dare come into it?”

“Well, see, they’ve printed questions on the green blocks, and if you remove one of them from the tower, you have to answer honestly. Or, if you take a red block with a dare on it, you have to do what it says. And then there are a bunch of beige blocks that we each get to write our own questions or dares on.”

Sherlock picked up one of the red blocks and read it aloud. _“Slow dance with a broom._ So this is the sort of thing they mean by dare?” 

“Yeah. They’re mostly meant to be silly, I guess. But really, you can write whatever you want.” 

“And what about the truths?” 

“Here, look at this.” John showed him a green block that read _“What was your most embarrassing moment?”_

“Okay. This could be interesting. How many do I get to write?”

“There are 18 blanks, so we’ll each do 9. Use pencil, so we can change them if we want to play again another time.”

John and Sherlock set to work, periodically snickering to themselves or grinning slyly at each other as they wrote. Once they’d finished, they stacked the blocks into a tall, narrow tower.

“You can go first,” Sherlock offered.

John carefully removed a block from the centre of the bottom level and read the preprinted dare aloud. _“Switch an item of clothing with another player._ Okay. Take off your trousers.”

“They’re going to be way too long on you.”

“I know. I don’t want them, I want your pants.”

John traded his simple cotton briefs for Sherlock’s decadent silk boxers. The fabric felt heavenly against his skin. “Ahhh… I may just keep these,” he said, sliding his trousers up over the luxurious fabric.

“You’re welcome to them. I’ve got two dozen more. But please don’t be offended if I don’t want to keep yours. I have certain standards when it comes to what I put on my body.”

“Hey, so long as _my_ body is one of the things that you’re willing to put on your body, I won’t quibble with your standards.”

Sherlock winked at him, and then removed a green block from the tower. _“Describe your worst moment at a party._ Hmm… Well, once Lestrade lured me to the Yard with the promise of a locked-room triple homicide, but it turned out to be a party instead.”

“That must have been awfully disappointing,” John deadpanned.

“It was,” Sherlock agreed, completely missing his sarcasm. “I considered locking Anderson, Donovan, and one of their cronies in a room and pumping a deadly gas in through the vents, so I could have what I’d been promised, but I thought even Lestrade might be able to solve that one, so I just snuck out the back.” 

John let out a bark of horrified laughter. “God, I’m glad you like me.”

“I really do,” Sherlock said, face softening.

“Okay, my turn.” John selected one of the handwritten blocks. _“Imitate an animal until I guess what it is.”_

John thought for a moment. Then he stood up, put his heels together, held his arms stiffly at his sides, puffed out his chest, and began waddling around the room.

“You’re a pengwing.”

“A _what?”_

“A pengling.”

John burst out laughing. 

“What’s so funny? A pengwing is a perfectly good guess. If you’re trying to be a duck, you should put your hands up under your armpits.”

John flopped onto the sofa in a fit of giggles.

Sherlock huffed indignantly. “You have to keep going until I guess.”

“No, no,” John gasped out between his giggles. “You’re right, love. I _am_ a _pengling.”_

Sherlock side-eyed him, but let it pass. He selected one of the red blocks. _“Remove an item of clothing._ Oh, good. I’ve been dying to get out of these.” 

He took off John’s pants and flung them across the room. 

“Oi!”

“What’re you complaining about?” Sherlock asked, pulling his trousers back on over his bare arse. “I said you could keep mine, remember?”

“Well, I’m holding you to that, now.”

John studied the tower before carefully removing one of the green blocks. _“What’s your favourite battery powered toy?_ Hmm… Operation was pretty fun, but…” 

“But?”

“Well, I’ve never used one, but I did see a vibrating cock ring in amongst the sex toys that your brother left in my bedside table drawer. I’d have to try it out before I could tell you whether or not it’s my favourite, though.”

“Try it out on whom?”

“That would be entirely up to you.”

“Duly noted.” 

Sherlock slid a red block out of the tower. “Oh, this is a good one. _Sit on the lap of the person to the left of you until your next turn.”_

Sherlock draped himself across John’s lap, shifting his arse to make himself more comfortable, and John decidedly less so. John wrapped one arm around him while cautiously selecting a beige block.

He read Sherlock’s handwritten question aloud. _“What’s something sexual that you’ve never done but would like to try?_ Well… You know I’m not interested in doing anything that you’re not completely comfortable with,” he began, squeezing Sherlock more tightly, “but, um, I think that anal sex is something I’d like to try.”

“Giving or receiving?”

“Either. Both, at some point, if you’re up for that. But honestly, it’s not a big deal if it’s not something you want. I’m more than satisfied with what we’ve been doing so far.”

“Oh, I’m more than satisfied, too, but I’m definitely open to trying new things. Just about any new thing you can think of…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We welcome your kind comments and kudos. 😊❤️😊


	5. Sense of Fun, by ChrisCalledMeSweetie

Sherlock gave one final wiggle before hopping off of John’s lap and removing a green Jenga block from the tower. _“Have you ever left the house without underwear? Details!”_

“This should be good,” John said.

“Well, of course I have — on many occasions. I’m not wearing any pants now. But I suppose the most noteworthy time was when I showed up at Buckingham Palace in nothing but a bed sheet.”

“You didn’t!”

“I assure you that I did. I’ve told you that my brother is the British government. Well, he was being very heavy-handed about trying to recruit my services, and I wanted to make it perfectly clear that I was not suitable for that sort of work. I thought he’d gotten the message, but apparently not. Although I really can’t complain about this most recent scheme of his.”

“Nope. I’m not complaining, either. This is the most fun I’ve had in… well, ever.” 

John appraised the steadily growing tower. “Okay, there are lots of the blocks that we wrote on still easily accessible. I think we should focus on those.”

He pulled one out and read, _“What’s one thing you would change about me?”_

John made sure he had full eye contact with Sherlock before answering. “I’d change your perception of yourself as someone who I’d want to change. You’re perfect for me exactly the way you are,” he said seriously.

Sherlock looked embarrassed, but pleased. He paused for a long moment before selecting another handwritten block. _“Who was your first crush?_ That’s obvious — you.” 

“Really? I mean, I know you said that before we met you never thought sex was worth the trouble, but that doesn’t necessarily mean you never had a crush on anyone.”

“Nope. You’re my first. My first everything, I hope.”

“That can easily be arranged.”

John pressed Sherlock’s knee before choosing his next block. He froze as he saw what it said. “Oh, no. This is one I wrote. It was supposed to be for you.” 

“If you didn’t want it, you should have put an identifying mark on the side. That’s what I did.” 

“That’s cheating.” 

“Show me where the rules say you can’t do that.” 

“It’s just understood.” 

“Not by me.” 

John huffed. 

“Go on. Read it,” Sherlock insisted. 

“Fine. _I dare you to hold the dart board in front of your face and let me throw darts at you until I hit the bullseye.”_

Sherlock chuckled darkly. “Oh, this is going to be fun.” 

“I don’t think this is a good idea.” 

“Well, that’s not very sporting of you, to plan on throwing darts at me and then balk at letting me throw them at you.” 

“But I’m an excellent shot.” 

“Well, you’d better hope that I am, too.”

John reluctantly retrieved the dart board from the cabinet. It was large enough to cover his face and chest, but left the rest of him alarmingly exposed.

“Please be careful. I may not be able to be your first ‘everything’ if you puncture me.”

“I’ll try not to hit anything vital.”

“That’s not very reassuring.”

Sherlock walked to the far side of the room, took aim, and hurled his first dart. John flinched as it thudded heavily into the board.

“Bullseye!” Sherlock crowed.

John sighed with relief, lowering the board to see the perfectly centred dart. “I never should have doubted you.”

“No, you shouldn’t. I have a vested interest in keeping your anatomy intact.”

Sherlock selected his next block and read it aloud. _“I dare you to kiss me in a place you’ve never kissed me before.”_

Grabbing John firmly by the shoulders, Sherlock manoeuvred him into the corner of the room. Then he kissed him soundly on the lips. “I’ve never kissed you in this corner,” he teased. 

“That’s not what I meant,” John objected. “I meant a place on my body you’d never kissed.” 

“Well, you should have written that, then,” Sherlock said with a cheeky wink.

John gave him a ‘you just wait’ look. Then he brought his attention back to the stack of blocks, which was becoming taller and less steady with each passing turn. He carefully drew out a beige one. _“I dare you to give me a 20 minute foot rub._ 20 minutes?! Come on!” 

“Yep. It’s a dare. You have to do it,” Sherlock smirked. 

“Well, you didn’t specify what I had to use to rub your feet. In fact, you didn’t even specify that it was _your_ feet getting rubbed. I could spend 20 minutes using _my_ foot to rub your cock.” 

“You certainly could.” 

John grinned. Now things were getting interesting. “Okay — let’s pull our chairs together. Shoes and socks off. Your foot in my lap, mine in yours. You keep your hands to yourself, though — I’m in charge of all the rubbing.”

After a hasty shift of seating arrangements, John found himself cradling one of Sherlock’s bony feet. He caressed it gently before digging his thumbs into the arch. Sherlock let out a pleased hum.

The hum turned to a gasp of surprise as John pressed his own foot into Sherlock’s crotch. Anchoring his heel against the base of Sherlock’s cock, John pointed and then flexed his foot several times, noting a distinctive swelling through the fabric of his trousers. 

“I feel like I’m pumping the gas pedal on a race car,” he teased. “Vroom! Vroom! I wonder how long it’ll take me to get you from zero to a hundred?”

Sherlock’s chuckle was breathier than usual.

“Trousers off,” John commanded.

Sherlock was quick to comply, baring himself from the waist down. John shucked his own trousers, as well as the silk boxers he’d borrowed from Sherlock. Then they repositioned themselves, this time each placing both feet in the other’s lap.

John’s right foot resumed its press and release movement along the length of Sherlock’s now fully-erect cock. Meanwhile, he inched his left foot under Sherlock’s bollocks, bringing his big toe to rest against his perineum.

Sherlock groaned.

The sound made John painfully aware of his own neglected cock. Pushing Sherlock’s bent knees further apart, he drew the soles of his feet together. Then he began thrusting through the tight channel formed by Sherlock’s arches.

Sherlock was panting now, the rhythmic pressure on his cock just enough to keep him on edge, but not enough to tip him over. John used his prehensile toes to tease Sherlock’s foreskin. He began to wiggle the big toe of his other foot, rubbing firmly against Sherlock’s perineum. 

The panting turned to moaning, Sherlock’s hands clenching and unclenching on the arms of the chair. The sight drove John wild. He increased the speed of his thrusts, fucking through Sherlock’s feet until he came with a shout.

John froze for a moment (or an eternity) as his orgasm hit, only brought back to himself by the sound of whimpering. Sherlock was grinding against his foot, desperate for release. John redoubled his efforts on Sherlock’s cock, while sliding the toes of his other foot back and pressing, hard.

Sherlock came with a choked gasp, mouth falling open in surprise.

…

It may or may not have been 20 minutes later when they resumed their game of Jenga. 

The next block Sherlock selected read _“What is your favourite part of my body?”_ He didn’t have to think before answering, “Right now? I’d have to say your foot.”

“You know, I never understood the whole ‘foot fetish’ thing, but that was pretty fucking hot.”

Sherlock hummed in agreement.

John removed his next block and stared at the words on it indignantly. _“I dare you to find something delicious in the pantry and make it for our dinner._ Hey! The foot rub worked out for the best, but now you’re just taking advantage. This game is supposed to be Truth or Dare, not Truth or Slave.”

“Hmm… Truth or Slave — that could be fun to try later. But right now, it’s Truth or Dare, and you picked a dare, so you have to do it. It’s in the rules.”

“I want to revise my answer to what I’d change about you.”

“Nope. Too late. You already said I’m perfect. Now go and make me some dinner.”

…

Later, over a passable Thai green curry, their conversation turned to the missing clue.

“Do you think it’s in one of the games we haven’t played yet?” John asked.

“Possibly… Mycroft loves to appear clever, so hiding a clue in Cluedo is the sort of thing that he would do. But expecting us to hunt through every game — or every book or DVD, for that matter — just seems too mundane.”

“Okay, then. What else might fall under your brother’s definition of ‘clever’? Some of the other codes were related to the doors they unlocked: the nursery rhymes about food to enter the pantry, _My Beautiful Laundrette_ for the laundry room, and the clocks for the room labeled _To Help You Pass the Time._ So what would he use for the _Cold Storage_ room?”

Sherlock grabbed John’s face and kissed him. “You’re a genius!”

Striding to the empty refrigerator, he threw open the door and stuck his head inside. A moment later he emerged, holding a small light bulb. He showed the tiny letters inscribed on it to John.

_(W X Y / C - HFC) / B X N X O X P_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We welcome your kind comments and kudos. 😊❤️😊


	6. Number Sense, by ChrisCalledMeSweetie

Sherlock and John stood in front of the door labeled Cold Storage. They peered down at the writing on the light bulb in Sherlock’s hand: _(W X Y / C - HFC) / B X N X O X P_

“Finally, an easy one.”

“Are you kidding?” John asked. “They just look like a bunch of random letters to me.”

“Not random, and not just letters. Note how many times the X appears, along with other mathematical symbols.”

“Okay. So if what I took for a hyphen is subtract, and the slash is divide, then X is multiply. But what are the other letters?”

“They’re chemical symbols. W is tungsten, atomic number 74. Y is yttrium, atomic number 39. 74 times 39 gives us 2,886.”

“How did you do that so quickly in your head?”

“It’s simple. 74 times 40 is 2,960, minus 74 is 2,886.”

“Simple for you, maybe. Mental arithmetic was never my strong suit.”

“Well, it’s a good thing you’ve got me, then, isn’t it? Now, C is carbon, atomic number 6, and 2,886 divided by 6 is 481. Remember that number.”

“481. Got it.”

“Okay, now the next three letters have no spaces between them, suggesting that they represent a three digit number. Hydrogen is 1, fluorine is 9, and carbon is 6, so HFC would be 196. What’s your number?”

“481.”

“See, you’re good for something,” Sherlock teased. “481 minus 196 is 285. Divided by 5 for boron gives us 57. Times 7 for nitrogen is 399.”

“Seriously? That quick?”

“Dividing by 5 is just doubling and then moving the decimal. And 50 times 7 is 350, plus 7 times 7 is 49. Even you could do those without a calculator.”

“If you say so.”

“I just did. Now where was I?”

“399.”

“Right. Times 8 for oxygen is 3,192.”

“I know you want to tell me how you got that one so fast.”

“If you insist. 8 times 400 is 3200, minus 8 is 3,192. Now all we have to do is multiply by 15 for phosphorus, and we’re done.”

“So, what’s the answer?”

“I thought I’d let you do this one.”

“Sherlock, don’t make me punch you in the brain.”

“Come on, John. To multiply by 15, just add half of your original number and then multiply by 10.”

“What number were we at, again?”

“3,192.”

“So half of that is…”

“You can do half of 3200, and then take away half of 8.”

“Okay, 1600 minus 4 is 1,596.”

“Good. Now add 1,596 to 3,192.”

“You know, we could have had this door open by now if you’d just do it yourself.”

“Yes, but then you’d be stuck with the false belief that you’re not capable of mental arithmetic. 1,596 plus 3,192. Do it.”

“Don’t you have some kind of trick for this one?”

“They’re not tricks, they’re strategies. And yes, I do. 1,596 is 4 less than 1600, and 3,192 is 8 less than 3200. So just add 1600 and 3200 and then subtract 12.”

“4800 minus 12 is 4,788.”

“Right. Now just multiply by 10.”

“Finally, an easy one. 47,880. God, there’d better be something good behind this door!” 

John typed the code into the keypad, and the door slid open with a quiet hiss. He and Sherlock stepped through it into a room filled with file boxes. Sherlock’s eyes lit up as he lifted the lid on the nearest one.

 _“Cold Storage_ — yes! This is so much better than a switch to cut the power to the electric fence. These boxes contain the evidence from _cold cases._ It’s Christmas!”

John watched with equal parts amusement, perplexity, and fondness as Sherlock opened one box after another, exclaiming over the contents of each with delight. He did look for all the world like a little boy who’d just found a whole litter of puppies under the Christmas tree.

While Sherlock was engrossed in examining the boxes, John explored the room. The walls were lined from floor to ceiling with shelves containing evidence. The centre was likewise occupied by several free-standing shelving units. 

Although it was pretty obvious that the ‘Cold’ in ‘Cold Storage’ referred to the cold cases, John still searched the room for any sign of a way to turn off the hot wire that was strung along the wall surrounding their island. There were no electrical switches in view, but he did find a door at the far end of the room labeled COLDER STORAGE. Perhaps that’s where the power box was located.

Like every other door they’d encountered so far, this one had no handle. Unlike the other doors, however, it had no scanners for palms, or feet, or retinas, and no numerical locking mechanism, either in the form of a keypad, combination dial, or clock. Its only feature was an indentation in the shape of a figure 8. Each circle was an inch in diameter, and there was a short horizontal line cutting between them. John traced the indentation with his finger, but without effect.

Deciding that this was a mystery that could wait for another day, John headed back over to Sherlock, who was still happily looking through boxes.

“You don’t plan to solve all of those tonight, do you?”

“I’m just cataloging them for now. Determining which are obvious, which are dull, which are worth my time, and which are so fascinating that I want to save them for a special occasion.”

“How much longer do you think this cataloging is going to take?”

“Oh, ages,” Sherlock said gleefully. “There must be four dozen cold cases here, dating back as far as the 1800s.”

“Well, if they’ve been sitting around for 200 years, I don’t think a few more hours is going to matter much. It’s late. Why don’t you come to bed?”

“But John, there are _cases…_ ” 

“I promise to make it worth your while…”

Sherlock hesitated. “My body says yes, but my brain is really getting off on all of this evidence.”

“What if I could get your brain and your body off simultaneously?”

“I’m intrigued. What do you have in mind?”

“Come to bed, and you’ll find out.”

Sherlock came.

…

In the bedroom, John stripped off Sherlock’s clothes, then his own. “It’s time for another game,” he said.

“I can already tell I’m going to win this one.”

John laughed, and kissed him. “We’re both going to win. But listen carefully, because you have to follow the rules. I’m going to give you a blow job.”

“I like the first rule,” Sherlock interrupted.

“Pay attention,” John said, in a mock-stern voice. “I promised stimulation for your mind as well as your body, so here’s how we’re going to play it: I’m going to give you a series of maths problems based on the periodic table, just like the ones you said were so easy earlier. I’ll put my hand on you while I’m asking the questions, and my mouth on you while you’re thinking. But if it takes you too long to answer, I’ll stop touching you completely until you regain your powers of mental arithmetic. Understood?”

Sherlock’s eyes lit up. “Understood.”

…

Just listening to the rules of the game brought Sherlock’s cock to instant attention. He sat down on the edge of the bed and spread his knees wide in invitation. John tossed a pillow on the floor and knelt in front of him.

“Ready?” he asked.

“Oh, yes.”

John brought his hand to Sherlock’s cock and gave a couple of long, slow strokes as he asked, “What’s iron plus lead?”

 _That one’s too easy,_ Sherlock thought, as John’s mouth closed around the head of his cock. He pretended to have to think about it for as long as he dared before saying, “108.”

John’s hand replaced his mouth as he asked, “What’s platinum minus titanium?”

Again, Sherlock stalled in order to keep John’s lips around him for as long as possible before answering, “56.” 

“What’s nitrogen times oxygen?

“Also 56. Come on, John, you have to make these a little more challenging.”

John got a wicked gleam in his eyes. “All right. But remember, you asked for it. What’s gold divided by silver?”

As John’s head once again began bobbing on his cock, Sherlock realised that he might be in trouble. 79 divided by 47 was not something he could easily calculate in his head, even if he wasn’t distracted by the world’s most talented tongue. And the longer it took him to try to figure it out, the more distracting that tongue — and those lips, and that hot, wet mouth — became.

Sherlock could feel the pressure building. His thighs clenched involuntarily around John’s head, and his bollocks drew up tight. He groaned in frustration as John suddenly pulled away.

“I guess I need to let some of that blood return to your brain,” John said, teasingly. “Give me the answer, and I’ll finish you off.”

Sherlock stared at him, wide-eyed. 

John grinned back at him. “I promised to get you off mentally, as well as physically. So come on, genius…”

“Can I just calculate it to two decimal places?”

John pretended to think for a moment. “Okay — but only because I love you.”

Sherlock’s body relaxed as he said, softly, “I love you, too.”

Then he girded his mental loins (while his actual loins screamed at him to hurry the fuck up) and focused on the maths. A minute later, he had his answer. “1.68.”

John patted his thigh. “That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?”

Sherlock huffed. 

“And, for the record, there’s no way I could know whether you’re right or not, so you could have basically just blurted out any random number.”

Before Sherlock could retort, John’s mouth wiped all thoughts from his mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We welcome your kind comments and kudos. 😊❤️😊


	7. Sense of Hearing, by ChrisCalledMeSweetie

Over breakfast the next morning, John mentioned the door he’d seen marked _Colder Storage._

“Why didn’t you say something sooner?” Sherlock asked.

“You were so engrossed in your evidence boxes, and then I was so engrossed in getting you off, that I guess it slipped my mind.”

“Good answer. So, do you know where to look for the next clue?”

“Yes, Sherlock. Even I — a man barely intelligent enough to come top of my med school class at St. Bart’s — can deduce that if ‘cold storage’ referred to the refrigerator, then ‘colder storage’ probably refers to the freezer.”

Sherlock leapt up, tousling John’s hair affectionately as he went past. He returned to the table a moment later, holding a small light bulb. 

“For my conductor of light,” he said with mock-ceremony, presenting it to John.

John peered at the tiny writing on the bulb, then read it aloud. “Beach Boys 1966.”

“Does that mean anything to you?”

“Well, I could probably sing the chorus to half a dozen of their songs, but I was never a major fan, so I couldn’t tell you what exactly they were doing in 1966.”

“You said the locking mechanism was just a figure-8-shaped indentation?”

“Yeah. Or maybe it was meant to be an infinity symbol, turned sideways.”

“Do the Beach Boys have any songs about the number 8, or about infinity?”

“Not that I know of. But, like I said, I’m not a huge fan. Maybe Mycroft left us some of their CDs in the entertainment centre.”

…

The only Beach Boys CD they found was a compilation album entitled _The Very Best Of The Beach Boys._ John and Sherlock sat on the sofa, heads close together, looking at the tracks listed on the back of the case.

01\. Good Vibrations  
02\. California Girls  
03\. I Get Around  
04\. Wouldn't It Be Nice  
05\. Surfin' Safari  
06\. Fun Fun Fun  
07\. Surfin' USA  
08\. Help Me Rhonda  
09\. Don't Worry Baby  
10\. When I Grow Up (To Be A Man)  
11\. Little Deuce Coupe  
12\. Dance Dance Dance  
13\. Little Honda  
14\. Do You Wanna Dance  
15\. Surfer Girl  
16\. Then I Kissed Her  
17\. God Only Knows  
18\. Caroline, No  
19\. Sloop John B  
20\. Barbara Ann  
21\. Heroes And Villains  
22\. Do It Again  
23\. Darlin’  
24\. Wild Honey  
25\. Break Away  
26\. Rock And Roll Music  
27\. I Can Hear Music  
28\. Cotton Fields (The Cotton Song)  
29\. Lady Lynda  
30\. Kokomo

“There’s nothing here to indicate what year any of these songs were first released,” John said.

“Let’s start with number 8,” Sherlock suggested. “Maybe there’s a clue in the lyrics.”

As “Help Me Ronda” started playing, John pulled Sherlock up into an impromptu dance. They wiggled and twisted and shimmied wildly around the room, singing along. When the song ended, they collapsed together on the sofa, laughing.

“God, those lyrics are repetitive,” John said. “Did you catch anything we could use as a clue?”

“Not unless there’s a girl named Ronda hiding in one of the cupboards, waiting to pop out and help us.”

“Help me Ronda, help, help me Ronda,” John sang.

Sherlock bumped their shoulders together. “Let’s listen to the whole album,” he suggested. “Maybe the clue is in one of the other songs. And even if it’s not, I like dancing with you.”

An hour and a half later, John and Sherlock were tired and sweaty, but no closer to figuring out how to get into the _Colder Storage_ room.

“I’m ready for a break,” John said. “Do you know what I would absolutely love to do?”

“Give me another foot rub?”

“Tempting, but no. I’d love to cuddle with you on the sofa and watch James Bond.”

“Hmm… I’ve never seen a James Bond film, but I guess it wouldn’t hurt to try. Which one’s your favourite?”

“They’re all good. I thought we could start at the beginning, and have our own private movie marathon.”

“How many are there?”

“Too many to watch in one day. It’ll have to be a multi-day viewing party.”

“I’ll agree to _one,”_ Sherlock said. “After that, I’m not making any promises.”

“Oh, one is all it’ll take to get you hooked,” John said confidently. He slipped the DVD of _Dr. No_ into the player, and then made himself comfortable, snuggled up against Sherlock.

…

It didn’t take long for Sherlock to realise two things: James Bond was utterly ridiculous, and he, himself, was so utterly, ridiculously in love with John that he’d be willing to sit through every single film just to make him happy. He alternated between watching the movie and watching John’s reaction to it, the latter being much more interesting.

After _Dr. No,_ they took a break for lunch — eating being another thing that Sherlock found himself glad to do to make John happy — and then popped _From Russia with Love_ into the DVD player. They were halfway through _Goldfinger_ before Sherlock decided that he could find a better way of enjoying the movie with John.

He slid to the floor and buried his face in John’s lap. 

“Not that I’m complaining,” John said, “but you’re not going to be able to see much from down there.”

“My view is perfect,” Sherlock said, as he lowered John’s flies and nuzzled him through the thin fabric of his pants.

“Mmmm… Do you want me to pause the film, so you don’t miss anything?”

“Nope. I’ve got a perfect sense of hearing. Even when there’s no dialogue, I can tell exactly what’s happening, just by listening to the score and the overblown sound effects.” 

“Well, then, be my guest,” John said, spreading his knees in invitation.

…

Once the movie — and John — had reached a climax, Sherlock climbed back up on the sofa to enjoy some cuddling during the closing credits. 

As the last notes of the score faded, he briefly considered allowing the movie marathon to continue, but decided against it. Instead, he got up and crossed the room to the cabinet that held his violin and John’s clarinet.

“I noticed earlier that there was some sheet music in here, but I didn’t look through it all. Maybe there’s something by The Beach Boys from 1966.”

John joined him, and together they looked through the stack of loose pages. There were some modern songs, as well as classical pieces, but nothing that seemed related to the clue they were trying to solve.

John giggled when he found one labeled _Fuchs Duo No. 1 for Clarinet and Violin, op. 14._ “I can’t tell you how many _fuchs_ I don’t give about classical music.”

Sherlock snorted. “Childish, John. And you know that I actually love classical music. Are you good enough to play this?”

“I’m good enough to try.”

Sherlock carefully removed his violin from it’s case, tuned it by ear, and then tightened and rosined his bow. John popped his clarinet reed into his mouth to moisten it while he assembled his instrument. Once both men were ready, they began to play.

Sherlock quickly lost himself in the music, as he so often did while playing. This was different, though. The clear notes of John’s clarinet wove in and out of his own melody in a way that was almost like making love.

Glancing at John, Sherlock could tell that he felt it, as well. As the music — and his heart — swelled, Sherlock marvelled at the realisation that he would never grow tired of finding new ways to connect with this man. 

…

Later that night, curled up with John in bed, Sherlock hummed in contentment. He was just about to drift off to sleep when it suddenly occurred to him that he hadn’t thought about his cold cases all day. And he didn’t even mind. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We welcome your kind comments and kudos. 😊❤️😊


	8. Sense of Curiosity, by ChrisCalledMeSweetie

“John?”

“Mmm…”

“I’m curious about something…” 

“Hmm?” John responded, still mostly asleep.

“I’ve never actually seen the contents of your bedside table drawer.”

It took a moment for John’s drowsy brain to process those words, but once he realised what Sherlock meant, he snapped into wakefulness.

“And you’d like to rectify that?”

“Yes. I’ve avoided thinking about the sex toys you mentioned, because the idea of my brother leaving them here for us creeps me out, but I’ve decided to delete Mycroft’s involvement, and just view them with an open mind.”

“And you can do that? Just delete something like that?”

“Yes. If I allowed myself to remember everything, my Mind Palace would become horribly cluttered. So, I periodically tidy up and put the rubbish in the bin. And then, every so often, I haul the bin out to the skip, and it’s gone for good.”

“And that’s what you’re going to do when it comes to Mycroft and my bedside table drawer?”

“That’s what I do with quite a lot of things having to do with Mycroft. The less I think about him, the better.”

Sherlock closed his eyes for a minute, and John could almost see the wheels turning in his brain, whisking away all thoughts of his brother. When Sherlock opened his eyes again, they were gleaming with curiosity.

“So, John, care to show me what you found?”

John placed his palm flat on the scanner atop his bedside table, and the drawer slid open. 

The first time he’d opened this drawer — long before he and Sherlock became a couple — John had only given the items it contained a brief glance before zeroing in on the key they’d been looking for. Since then, he hadn’t wanted to look inside again until Sherlock was ready to do so with him. Now, he found himself quite curious about the assortment of sex toys he’d glimpsed before.

Several of the toys came in packaging marked **BOYZ SHOP: FOR MEN WHO FUCK MEN**. John pulled out a box and read the label:

**Plunge this purple dong into your ass, and crank up the vibrator!**  
_The vibrator is strong, and multi-speed. The contours are firm enough for you to feel them all while still being deliciously flexible. Best of all is the material. While it may have the flex of PVC jelly rubber, it doesn't have the smell, and it doesn't get greasy or sticky. If you like vibrating cock, this is a great option._

**Purple Vibrating Dildo Specs and Benefits:**  
_Size: Measures approx. 8" total length, 7" insertable length, 1.5" in width and 5" in circumference_  
_Material: phthalate-free TPE_  
_Head is flexible to work with the contours of your body_  
_Multiple-speed dial allows you to find that ideal setting_

John passed the dildo to Sherlock, whose mouth was hanging slightly open. 

“Why is it purple?” 

“I guess some men find purple sexy. I know there’s one purple shirt of yours that I’m always tempted to rip right off of you.”

Sherlock smiled at that before reaching for another box. He held it so that John could read along with him. 

**Ease slowly into anal play with these fun anal beads!**  
_The tightest anal virgin could take the first bead or two on this toy, and work his way up to all of them. What really stands out is the break between the beads, so you feel each and every one on its own. Even if you're not new to anal play, it can be a very enjoyable bead set._

**First Timer Anal Beads Specs and Benefits:**  
_Size: 10.88" total length, 9.5" insertable, beads range from .64" to 1.24"_  
_Material: PVC_  
_Waterproof: Yes_  
_Super-slim shaft for extra comfort_  
_4 different sized beads_

John took out the string of pink beads to examine more closely, while Sherlock picked up the next box. His cry of excitement immediately seized John’s full attention.

“Here’s what we’ve been searching for!”

John read the label on the box in Sherlock’s hands.

**Lock in a big veiny vibrating erection!**  
_This comfortable and easy double cock ring allows you to constrict your cock and balls in a variety of configurations. The stretchy rings do a great job of keeping blood from flowing back out of your cock, helping create a bigger veinier erection. You can use it around the base of your cock and balls, the base of your cock, or your scrotum. The vibrator will vibrate against you balls and the base of your cock, keeping you in a constant state of excitement._

**Vibrating Double Cock and Ball Ring Specs and Benefits:**  
_Size: Each ring measures 1 inch in diameter unstretched_  
_Material: TPR, ABS plastic_  
_The cock ring helps men maintain a longer-lasting, harder erection_  
_Rings can be placed around cock and balls, both on cock, or both on balls_

“Umm…” John said, struggling to hide his dismay. “Do you feel like one of us has been having trouble maintaining a satisfactory erection?”

“What? No — of course not! Look at the shape, John!”

Mind no longer clouded by the horrifying thought that Sherlock found his cock somehow lacking, John turned his attention to the picture on the box. The double cock ring formed a figure 8, bisected by the line of a cylindrical vibrator. 

“Oh! _Good Vibrations!”_

“Exactly!” 

…

Sherlock placed the double cock ring into the indentation on the door marked COLDER STORAGE. It was a perfect fit. As soon as he switched the vibrator on, the door slid open.

Sherlock and John stepped through the doorway into a large room. Florescent overhead lights gleamed off of the chrome freezer units lining the walls. Sherlock whooped in delight at the sight of the microscope and other laboratory equipment on one of the glass-topped work tables in the centre of the room. 

As Sherlock went to inspect the lab equipment, John began opening the freezers. His whoop of delight was as heartfelt as Sherlock’s when he discovered that the first one was filled with frozen meat. He found steaks, lamb chops, pork loins, and several whole chickens. 

The second freezer contained fruits and vegetables — strawberries, blueberries, broccoli, spinach, carrots, green beans, etc. While not quite as exciting to John as the meat, they would be a welcome change from the canned and/or dehydrated fare that he and Sherlock had been living on. 

John was even more thrilled by the contents of the next freezer. His mouth began watering over the ice cream, cheese cake, tiramisu, and other treats within. All of these appetising sights left John completely unprepared for what he found in the fourth freezer he opened.

“Jesus Christ! Is that a cadaver?!”

Sherlock was instantly by his side. Instead of sharing John’s horror, though, he examined the body with enthusiasm.

“Oh! I wonder whether this is a victim from one of the cold cases. Can you determine cause of death, John?”

“I’d say he’s currently suffering from hypothermia,” was John’s deadpan response.

“True. We’ll have to thaw him out before we delve deeper.”

“You’re a bit of a mad scientist, aren’t you?”

“Problem?”

“No. Just an observation. Although, if you stick this guy on the electric fence in an attempt to bring him back to life, don’t expect me to save you when he goes on a rampage. I’ll be locked in here where it’s safe, eating ice cream.”

“Oooh — you found ice cream?”

“Yep. And lots of other things that one wouldn’t need to be a cannibal to enjoy eating.”

“Oh, I don’t know. There’s some human flesh that I’ve found I quite enjoy having in my mouth…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We welcome your kind comments and kudos. 😊❤️😊


	9. Sense of Connection, by ChrisCalledMeSweetie

As the days went by, an unfamiliar feeling settled over Sherlock: contentment. Against all odds, for the first time in his life, Sherlock Holmes was wholly content.

Up until this point, Sherlock had never dwelt on the fact that his needs were not being met. Some of those needs — physical requirements, like food and sleep — he’d taken a sort of pride in ignoring. Other needs — like intellectual stimulation — he’d resigned himself to largely doing without, given the deplorably dull state of the world. And still others — like companionship and intimacy — he’d never acknowledged as needs at all. 

Now, though, he was thriving — physically, mentally, and emotionally. 

Sherlock’s body had filled out a bit from the regular meals that he and John prepared together. The exercise they got from daily walks around the island, as well as playful sparring and wrestling matches, was toning his muscles in a way that he could see John admiring. And his libido — so long held in check — was taking full advantage of the free rein he now gave it.

Sherlock’s mind was likewise delightfully engaged. There were cold cases to investigate, experiments to conduct, and puzzles to solve. Less challenging — but almost as interesting — there were documentaries to watch about otters, and penguins, and bees. There were also books of poetry — from Shakespeare to Emily Dickinson to Walt Whitman — that he and John took turns reading aloud. And, of course, there were games to play. Sherlock had never been less bored.

The emotional component of Sherlock’s contentment was the most unexpected. He had no frame of reference for the way he felt about John. He cared about what John thought, and about what he wanted. He enjoyed John’s company to a degree he wouldn’t have believed possible. With John, he felt seen and valued, safe and loved. 

And Sherlock loved John back, with his whole heart. 

…

John Watson was in love. 

It infused his every fibre, his every moment. Waking or sleeping; talking, laughing, or silent; from the kitchen to the game room to the mad scientist’s lab: his love for Sherlock was there.

The bedroom, though… Well, that was a special place. 

From the first time Sherlock had taken his hand — so long ago, when they’d barely known each other, and the gesture had been merely one of practicality to avoid getting separated in the dark — John had felt an instant sense of connection. Something about that touch just seemed _right:_ as though John’s body was meant to be in contact with Sherlock’s; as though their very molecules were drawn to each other. 

Each new level of physical intimacy had carried that same gravity. From their first kiss, to their first cuddle, to their first mutual orgasms, every touch _meant_ something. Whether tender or urgent, playful or filled with passion, John always felt that he and Sherlock were making love.

Although it was all new to him, Sherlock was quite open-minded when it came to sex. So far, he’d been willing to try anything John suggested. This was both a blessing and a curse. A blessing for obvious reasons. But a curse, as well, since it left John feeling like he needed to be the one to ensure that they took things slowly enough not to overwhelm his enthusiastic but inexperienced lover.

When it came to anal sex, John, too, was a virgin. As a doctor, he’d given his fair share of prostate exams, but clinical experience with human anatomy did nothing to quell his nervous anticipation. The act of penetration just seemed so _fraught:_ fraught with the potential for accidentally hurting each other, as well as fraught with significance for their relationship. And so, although they’d discussed it in theory, John had held off on initiating that next step.

He should have known that Sherlock would have no such hesitation.

…

It happened one morning, after they’d showered together, but before they got dressed. 

“Give me your hand,” Sherlock said.

When John complied, Sherlock led him to his bedside table, and placed his palm flat on the scanner. The drawer slid open and Sherlock reached in, removing the condoms and lube. He handed them to John.

“What’re these for,” John asked.

“Don’t be an idiot. The lube is to slick up your fingers so they’ll slide into me more easily, and the condom is to prevent us from sharing any communicable diseases. I thought you were supposed to be a doctor.”

“Right. You, uh, just caught me off guard. So we’re doing this, then.”

“Unless you’ve changed your mind, and no longer want to.”

“No, no. It’s, um… No, I definitely want to.”

“Well, then, stop babbling and get on with it.”

“Shut up, you hopeless romantic.”

“Make me,” Sherlock teased. 

So John tackled him onto the bed and kissed him until they were both too breathless for words.

And then it was easy. Easy, and simple, and completely _them._

John’s fingers knew just what to do, and Sherlock’s body opened up so beautifully around them. Slowly, gently, softly, softly. Time stretched like taffy in the hot sun as John eased his cock inside Sherlock. 

The sense of connection was so profound that it brought tears to John’s eyes. 

Still, it was no more and no less profound than their first kiss, or their first cuddle, or any of their other first times. Because it wasn’t about what they were _doing;_ it was about who they _were,_ together: fully themselves, and fully accepted.

Connected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We welcome your kind comments and kudos. 😊❤️😊


	10. Sense of Taste and Smell, by ChrisCalledMeSweetie

Sherlock and John walked hand-in-hand across the island, which was now carpeted in early wildflowers. Sherlock began to sing, so low he was barely audible over the wind.

_“Seasons may change, winter to spring_  
_But I love you until the end of time…”_

He trailed off, and John squeezed his hand.

“I knew you were enjoying _Moulin Rouge_ last night. You can’t fool me with all of your ‘this is sentimental nonsense’ grumbling.”

“The fact that it was sentimental nonsense and the fact that I enjoyed it are not mutually exclusive.”

“Good to know.”

…

Back inside, John said, “The gingerbread dough should be thawed by now. Want to help me make gingerbread men?”

“Only if we can make them anatomically correct.”

“Of course.”

The two men giggled like schoolboys as they fashioned bits of dough into ridiculously well-endowed little men. The ratio of penis to body became more and more disproportionate with each figure, until they ended up filling the rest of the tray with nothing but gingerbread cocks. 

“Oh, this one looks just like yours,” Sherlock said, admiring his own handiwork. “I’m going to enjoy deep-throating this.” 

John snorted. “You’ve made it too big.”

“Poppycock. I’ve made it exactly to scale.” 

“More like floppy-cock. It’s going to end up raw in the middle, because it won’t cook through before the rest of the biscuits are burnt.”

“Not to worry. We’ll take the inferior specimens out early, and stick this baby back in to bake until it’s hot and ready for my mouth.”

“I’m always hot and ready for your mouth.”

“I know,” Sherlock said. He gave John a _just-wait-until-later_ kiss before popping the tray into the oven.

Soon the kitchen filled with the enticing scent of baking gingerbread. When the timer went off, John pulled his lips away from Sherlock’s and removed the tray from the oven. He carefully slid most of the biscuits onto a rack to cool.

The life-sized model of John’s cock had swelled during baking to larger-than-life size. As he had predicted, it wasn’t fully cooked. He put the tray back into the oven for a few more minutes.

When it was finally done, John had to bat Sherlock’s hand away. “Wait! I don’t want you burning your fingers, or your tongue. I have plans for them later.”

Sherlock responded by biting the head off of one of the — already cool — little gingerbread men.

“Vicious,” John said.

“Oh, you just wait and see what I’m going to do to that cock. Your _‘no teeth during a blow job’_ rule doesn’t apply to biscuits.” 

…

Once the gingerbread had been devoured, and the kitchen returned to a state of reasonable cleanliness, Sherlock said, “I’m off to the lab. I’ve got an experiment I want to work on.”

“Do you need help?”

“No. Although I do always enjoy your company, if there’s nothing else you’d rather do.”

“Actually, I think I’ll take a little break from playing mad scientist. I finished my book yesterday, and I’d like to find something else to read.”

They parted ways, and John went in search of new reading material. As he browsed through the contents of the bookcase, he dislodged a sheet of paper that had been wedged between two volumes. It fluttered to the floor, and he bent to retrieve it.

It was a piece of old parchment from the Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum, with a list of reasons for admission from 1864. John read it with a mix of amusement and horror.

He skimmed past MENTAL EXCITEMENT, NOVEL READING, NYMPHOMANIA, and OPIUM HABIT, and was just wondering about OVER ACTION OF THE MIND when there was a sudden _**BOOM!**_  
  
John’s body was in a duck-and-cover position under the table before his conscious mind registered the sound of the explosion. The instant his brain caught up, he had only one thought: _Sherlock!_

Heart in his throat, John raced toward the lab. As he dashed through the Cold Storage room, the door to the Colder Storage room opened, disgorging a cloud of foul-smelling smoke and a rather dazed-looking Sherlock. 

“I’ve disproved my hypothesis,” Sherlock said, between coughs.

John rushed to him, quickly checking for injuries. Finding none, he dragged Sherlock out into the fresher air of the sitting room before going back to throw open all of the windows.

“Are you all right?”

“Yes. Just badly in need of a shower.”

“Come on, then. You reek. Let’s leave your clothes out here, so we don’t stink up the bedroom.”

John stripped an unprotesting Sherlock and then led him off for a much-needed shower. 

…

As the warm water cascaded over them, John ran his hands up and down Sherlock’s body, checking and rechecking to make sure that he was whole and unscathed.

“I’m fine, John. Just a little mishap in the lab. No harm done to anything except my pride and my sense of smell.”

“I know. But I need to do this, okay?”

“Okay.”

Sherlock stood patiently as John re-examined every inch of him. Once he was satisfied, John lathered up a flannel with kumquat-scented shower gel and began washing away every last trace of the near-disaster. He finished up by shampooing Sherlock’s hair.

Sherlock hummed with pleasure as John’s blunt fingernails scritched over his scalp. He allowed John to tilt his head back to rinse away the suds before massaging in a generous amount of conditioner. As that, too, disappeared down the drain, Sherlock finally spoke.

“I’m sorry I scared you.”

“I know.”

“You’re still shaking.”

“I know.”

“Let me make it up to you.”

Sherlock washed John with the same tenderness John had shown him. Then he sank to his knees.

John gazed down at him. “I like where this seems to be going, but I don’t want you to drown.”

“Just step forward a little so you’re blocking the spray… There. Good.” 

“Remember, I’m not made of gingerbread. The ‘no teeth’ rule is back in effect.”

Sherlock grinned up at him. He made a show of covering his teeth with his lips before swallowing John down like a biscuit.

…

“Now that we’re both clean and relaxed, I’m in the mood for a little experiment,” Sherlock said, striding over to John’s bedside table.

“So long as it doesn’t involve explosive chemicals, I’m up for anything,” John said, opening the drawer. “What do you have in mind?”

Sherlock reached in and fished out the cherry-flavoured lube and the pink anal beads. “Can I try these out on you?”

“Mmm… Yeah.” 

John flopped face-first onto the bed, boneless now that Sherlock had sucked all of the residual adrenaline out of his system.

“Lift your hips,” Sherlock said. When John complied, Sherlock placed a pillow beneath his pelvis, arranging his currently flaccid cock into a position that would provide room for expansion. “Comfortable?” he asked.

“Very.”

“Good.”

Sherlock squeezed a dollop of lube into his palm and warmed it between his hands before thoroughly coating the anal beads. He rubbed more lube over his fingers and circled them around John’s pucker.

“Is this okay?”

“Oh yeah.”

…

John closed his eyes and gave himself over to Sherlock’s experimentation. He wasn’t capable of another erection yet, but he was enjoying the novel sensation of the anal beads. Unlike Sherlock’s fingers, which provided a steady stretch, each bead caused his sphincter muscles to expand to accept it, and then contract again once it was inside. It was an odd but not unwelcome feeling.

The first bead slipped in and out quite easily. The second, slightly larger bead took a bit longer. Sherlock seemed to be in no hurry, though, and John was content to drift in his post-blow-job bliss until his body gradually opened around it.

Sherlock slid the first two beads slowly in and out, allowing the third, still larger, bead to press more and more firmly against him with each in-stroke. Eventually all resistance melted, and it popped inside.

The tip of the first bead was now just barely nudging against John’s prostate. What had been a pleasant but not particularly arousing experience suddenly kicked up a notch. John felt his cock stir beneath him in renewed interest.

“Good?” Sherlock asked.

“Mmmhmm… More…”

Sherlock gave a low chuckle. Again, he began the slow push/pull of the beads, now stimulating John’s prostate with each stroke. The sensation was a maddening tease. John grew impatient, and shoved his hips back against the largest bead, bearing down and sucking it in. He groaned at the sudden fullness and firm pressure against his prostate.

John expected Sherlock to give him a moment to adjust before resuming the in and out slide of the beads. Instead, he felt something warm and wet against his fluttering rim. Sherlock was _licking_ him!

Sherlock’s clever tongue flicked and swirled and drove John absolutely wild. He pushed himself up onto forearms and knees, freeing his aching erection. Supporting himself on his good shoulder, John reached for his cock. A few rough strokes, and he was coming.

John cried out as Sherlock pulled the beads from his spasming hole. He collapsed back down onto the bed, panting.

“Oh my god. That was intense.” 

Sherlock kissed his way up John’s body, which was still shuddering with aftershocks. He rolled John onto his back and kissed him.

“You taste like fruit salad,” John said.

“Cherry-flavoured lube and kumquat shower gel will do that.”

“Mmm… Kiss me again.”

…

Later, after more kisses, and a brief nap, Sherlock dragged himself away from John’s still-sleeping form to wash off the anal beads and return them and the lube to the bedside table drawer, which was still open.

He was about to slide the drawer closed when something caught his eye. What at first glance appeared to be the bottom of the drawer was in fact a piece of heavy card stock. Sherlock lifted it up to reveal a false bottom, secured by a combination lock with 16 dials, each containing a complete set of letters. Turning the card stock over in his hand, Sherlock read the message printed on the back:

_**There are 86 reasons for commitment, but you only need 69.** _

Hmm… Now what could that mean?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We welcome your kind comments and kudos. 😊❤️😊


	11. Sense of Commitment, by ChrisCalledMeSweetie

“John?”

“Hmmm…?” John responded, still mostly asleep.

“Have you ever tried 69?”

John shook himself out of his dream — something about eating a life-sized gingerbread detective — and tried to focus on Sherlock’s words. It took a moment for his brain to make sense of them. When at last he realised that his lover had woken him up from his nap to discuss sexual positions, he chuckled ruefully.

“Yeah, once, with a girlfriend at uni. It was not a resounding success.”

“Why not?”

“We just couldn’t get ourselves coordinated. The angles were all wrong, and she kept stopping to complain that I was missing the mark, so to speak. Then she ended up literally sitting on my face and nearly suffocating me. I gave her bum a shove in self-defence and she lost her balance and accidentally bit me. Neither one of us ended up getting off, and we broke up the next day.”

“Not an experience you’d be interested in repeating, I take it.”

“With her? No. But if it’s something you want to try, I’d be willing to give it another go. Don’t get your hopes up too high, though. I’m not sure it’s all that it’s cracked up to be. Aside from the awkward angles and the near-suffocation and the biting, I think it’s just kind of hard to focus on your own pleasure and somebody else’s at the same time.”

“But that’s what we always do when we make love. At least, that’s what _I’m_ always doing. Do you mean to say that you don’t enjoy touching me?”

Sherlock looked stricken. John hurried to reassure him.

“Oh, baby, no! I _love_ touching you. You _know_ I do. That’s not what I meant at all. When I’ve got my hands on you, or my mouth on you, I’m totally getting off on getting you off. Feeling you, or tasting you, and seeing you come undone… and those sounds that you make — god, that’s the hottest thing ever. Sometimes I think I could come just listening to you. There’s no way that you, of all people, could have failed to notice how turned on I get when I’m touching you.”

Sherlock’s tension evaporated. He gave John a quick kiss. “Right. But what _did_ you mean, then?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it’s just that I’m not good at multi-tasking. I mean, hand jobs are easy — I’ve been practicing on myself since I hit puberty — but blow jobs take a bit more concentration. Every time I get you in my mouth, I feel like all of my attention is on what I’m doing to you, and how you’re responding. And yeah, it drives me wild, but it’s your pleasure that I’m getting off on, and having my own cock sucked at the same time would almost be a distraction. Does that make sense?” 

Sherlock responded with another kiss. Then he pulled away with a thoughtful expression. “Mmm… What if, instead of being simultaneous, it was a series of turns? You could try something on me, and then I could duplicate it on you, back-and-forth. We could make a game out of it.”

“You and your games,” John said, completely failing to hit the chastising tone he’d been aiming for.

“It would be fun,” Sherlock said, warming to the idea. “We could even turn it into a competition — whoever comes first has to give the other a foot massage.”

“You and your games and your foot massages!” John laughed. “This is Jenga all over again. Fine, you’re on. Just let me go to the loo first.”

By the time John returned, Sherlock had removed the duvet from the bed and was lying on his side, naked. He patted the spot in front of him.

“Since we’re going to be at this for a while, I thought it would be more comfortable if we’re both lying down.”

“Good idea,” John said, joining him on the bed. He manoeuvred himself into position, being careful not to knee Sherlock in the head. “Okay — you said I could go first — are you ready?”

“Go for it.”

John began by placing a hand on Sherlock’s hip and rubbing a slow circle. Sherlock duplicated the motion on John’s hip. So far, so good. 

John slid his hand to Sherlock’s waist, giving a little squeeze. Sherlock jumped.

“Hey! No tickling!”

He gave a retaliatory squeeze, making John giggle.

“Okay, okay. No tickling,” John agreed.

He moved his hand back to Sherlock’s hip before blowing lightly across his half-hard cock. A moment later, he felt a puff of air across his own cock, which was showing a decided interest in this game. 

But although John really did want to play, he was still caught up in thoughts of his previous disastrous attempt at 69. It was etched in his mind as one of his rare sexual failures — a painful and humiliating experience. Tentatively, he kissed Sherlock’s thigh.

Sherlock picked up on his hesitation. After returning the kiss, he said, “I’m not your girlfriend from university, John. No matter how this goes, I won’t be breaking up with you tomorrow.”

“Right.” 

John grasped the base of Sherlock’s cock. _Just go for it,_ he told himself. And he did.

John quickly discovered that there were definite advantages to doing this with another man, rather than with a woman. For one thing, there was no question of ‘missing the mark.’ The mark in question was unmissable. For another, the angle, which he had found so difficult with that long-ago girlfriend, could be easily adjusted with his hand on Sherlock’s cock. Okay, then — all systems go. 

John set to work, pulling out all the stops to give Sherlock — and, by extension, himself — the world’s best blow job. Each lick, each suck, each bob of the head and flick of the tongue was mirrored back to him in a feedback loop of pleasure. The sounds, too, became a call-and-response, as he and Sherlock took turns drawing out each other’s sighs and gasps and moans. 

Each time John felt himself getting too close to orgasm, he eased off on what he was doing, so that Sherlock would ease off on him, as well. By the sixth time he’d brought them both, groaning, to the edge, Sherlock couldn’t take any more. He broke down, begging.

“John, _John,_ you win! Just please let me come. God, _please!”_

How could John refuse? It took him less than a minute to bring Sherlock to an explosive climax. Sherlock’s cock was still pulsing in his mouth when John felt his own climax being sucked up from the soles of his feet to erupt like a volcano. 

Once he regained the power of speech, John panted, “Wow. That was incredible. But I don’t know if I’d want to tempt fate by trying it again. It’s a miracle neither one of us got bitten at the end, there.”

Sherlock flipped around on the bed so they were lying face-to-face. “I love you.” 

John cupped his cheek and kissed him. “I love you, too. But don’t think that means you’re getting out of giving me a foot massage.”

“Hmph. Fine. But I think you should give me a back massage first. The difference in our heights has never bothered me before, but right now I feel like I might be suffering from permanent curvature of the spine.”

…

Once John had rubbed all of the kinks out of Sherlock’s back, and Sherlock had rubbed several interesting new kinks into John’s feet, the two men fell into a deep, contented sleep. Early the next morning, John awoke with a sense of deja vu.

“John?”

“Hmmm…?”

“What else do you know about 69?”

John blinked up at Sherlock. “What is your sudden obsession with 69?”

“I found something yesterday. A false bottom to your bedside table drawer, with a clue that read: _There are 86 reasons for commitment, but you only need 69.”_

“And you figured, since it was in the drawer with the sex toys, that it referred to the sexual position?”

“That seemed to be the logical conclusion.”

“Well, I guess that position did spark a little discussion about commitment. After all, you promised not to break up with me the next day if it didn’t go well.”

“That’s true. And even though it went spectacularly, I’m still not going to break up with you.”

John laughed, and then kissed him, morning breath be damned. “Good. So we have 86 reasons for commitment, but we only need 69. Hmm… What kind of a lock is it?”

“There are sixteen lettered dials. So it could require a word, or a phrase, or some sort of alphabetic code to open.”

“Okay. Should we make a list of all of our reasons for commitment? I’m sure I could come up with at least 86 reasons why I want to be with you.”

Sherlock kissed him. “Good idea. Let’s do it over breakfast.”

…

When their list was complete, Sherlock looked it over thoughtfully. As they were brainstorming ideas, his focus had been on his feelings about John. Now, though, he switched into analytical mode.

“The combination will be a sequence of sixteen letters,” he said. “Which of our entries might work?” 

_“We have amazing sex_ has sixteen letters,” John said. “And it fits with the sexual connotation of the number 69.”

“Let’s try it.”

…

John spun the dials to spell out WEHAVEAMAZINGSEX. Nothing happened.

“Let’s think of seven-letter synonyms for amazing,” Sherlock said. 

John tried WEHAVEAWESOMESEX. No luck. WEHAVESPECIALSEX, WEHAVEMAGICALSEX, and WEHAVESUPERIORSEX likewise failed to open the lock.

“Perhaps 69 is meant to imply an uncommon sexual practice. Let’s try _we have unusual sex,”_ Sherlock suggested.

When that didn’t work, they tried substituting the words _bizarre, strange,_ and _deviant._ Still, the lock remained stubbornly closed. They went down through their list, tweaking one entry after another to fit the sixteen letter requirement, but to no avail. 

“Let’s take a break,” John said eventually. “How about a Jenga rematch?”

“You’re on.”

…

The first thing Sherlock noticed as they entered the game room was a piece of old parchment lying on the floor near the bookcase. Curious, he picked it up. He stared in fascination at the list of reasons for admission to the Trans-Allegheny Lunatic Asylum.

“John, have you seen this?”

“Oh, yeah. I was looking at that when you blew up the lab. I must have dropped it there. I completely forgot about it.”

“I didn’t blow up the lab. It was just a minor mishap. But more to the point, do you realise what this is?”

“What?”

“A list of 86 reasons for commitment!”

“Oh! What’s number 69?”

“SPINAL IRRITATION. Which I would say is pretty appropriate, given the beating my back took yesterday. Although, I’m not quite sure why it would qualify someone for admission to a mental hospital.”

“According to that list, there are probably a dozen reasons for us to have been sectioned.”

“Well, I, for one, have been enjoying our _FALSE CONFINEMENT_ immensely.”

“As have I,” John said, kissing him. 

…

Back in the bedroom, John turned the combination lock to read SPINALIRRITATION. To his delight, it opened, revealing a shallow compartment in the bottom of the drawer. John removed the manilla envelope it contained.

“What do you think is in here?” he asked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We welcome your kind comments and kudos. 😊❤️😊


	12. The End? by PatPrecieux

"What do you think Sherlock? What's in this?"

Raking long fingers through his tangled curls, Sherlock smirked, "The inside of the envelope John."

"Brilliant deduction, git. Evidently a side effect of 69 for you is sophomoric humor."

"Only trying to heighten the suspense."

"After all we've been through, you think we need suspense?"

"Well John, it is rather anticlimactic to state the obvious."

"Which is what genius?"

"To discover what's in the envelope, open it."

John suppressed a grin, "You do realize I am aware of that. Are you familiar with the concept of a rhetorical question?"

Sherlock frowned, "So you really DIDN'T expect me to know?"

"None of the puzzles, trials, challenges, whatever this has been, have been simple. Or at least not simple enough for a wild guess."

"Very well then John, noting my insult at your lack of faith in my superior brain, open the stupid envelope. Gently!"

"I doubt your brother would wait this long to send us a booby trap."

"Perhaps not, but I put nothing beyond him."

"Considering his taste in sex toys, neither do I."

The taller man groaned, "Must you remind me that Mycroft handled those before we did?"

An evil grin crossed John's face, "Maybe he even tried them out first."

"OH MY GOD!! Open the damn thing!!!!"

John peered into the envelope, "Dangerous, no. Cryptic, yes."

"What? What is it?!"

"A note from Mycroft, and another envelope."

Sherlock reached out and snatched the note, reading aloud:

'John, brother mine, take the second envelope to the red door at the end of the main corridor. You may walk directly there. No visual or physical impediments await you. Do not open the second envelope until you arrive at the door.'

"As I said cryptic. Come on Sherlock, let's get to that door."

"I fail to see why we should wait."

"Patience is a virtue, luv. In other words, don't argue with success. Everything so far has worked out well for us. Let's not jinx it."

"John, I don't believe there is any empirical evidence to support that jinx's actually exist."

"Will you move your handsome ass? There's the door."

"I am not encouraged but, open the second envelope John."

"Oh for fuck's sake! Same again. Another note and envelope. It says:

'This is your last message. The third envelope contains the secret to your release from isolation and imprisonment. The door before you is voice activated. Should you correctly deduce the contents, freedom is yours. A caveat however, it must be you, Sherlock, to arrive at the solution. You may begin.'

Sherlock didn't move, " John, I, I find myself unsure."

"I'm not. I believe in you."

"But everything we've done here, we've done together. Now, I'm alone."

John took his hand and kissed him, "You're not alone. I'm right here. Whether you succeed or fail at this, WE win because we're together, luv, wherever we are, we're together."

"John you've done it. That's the answer!!"

"Of course I did. Just checking though, what answer did I find?"

Sherlock put his arms around the man who had become his universe and sighed, "Don't you see John? We aren't isolated or imprisoned any more. Out in the world, or in here, we're already free. We have each other and our love. The secret to our freedom IS that love, and you can't put that in an envelope. The solution is: the last envelope is empty."

The door opened and Mycroft ushered them out into a plush waiting room. "Just so little brother. Well done. John would you do the honors to confirm?"

John ripped the paper in half revealing there was indeed nothing inside. "Well played, Mycroft."

"Each of you are adequate opponents, but together you appear to be exemplary."

"Ta for that. What do you propose for Sherlock and me now?"

"Whatever you wish. A plane, a yacht, your own castle."

"John, could we stay here for several more weeks or so?"

"Here, Sherlock, are you sure?"

"We found each other and our happiness here. I'm sure Mycroft will provide for our every need, including privacy. There is a great deal here yet unexplored, if you understand my meaning."

"Well enough that I want to drag you back inside this minute. What do you say Mycroft? This our honeymoon cottage for the near future?"

"To be sure, but did I understand you correctly, honeymoon?"

"If you'll have me, Sherlock. What do you say to a long sexy shag in the Shetlands as husband and husband?"

Sherlock blushed deeply and smiled, "MY John, yes to marriage, now and forever. As to that sexy Shetland shag, I say it sounds in every sense, absolutely DIVINE."

And They Lived Happily Ever After, again, and again, and again.

…

_That’s what might have happened. Or maybe…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We welcome your kind comments and kudos. 😊❤️😊


	13. Let’s Pretend, by elwinglyre

Previously in Our Divinest Senses....

***Back in the bedroom, John turns the combination lock to read SPINALIRRITATION. To his delight, it opens, revealing a shallow compartment in the bottom of the drawer. John removes the manila envelope it contained.

“What do you think is in here?” he asks.***

John drops the envelope on the bed next to Sherlock.

"Why should we ever do what Mycroft wants and follow his direction in another one of his envelopes? Maybe we should never leave this island. Serve him right. We should make this sex holiday permanent," Sherlock grouses as he sits on their bed. He's holding a heaping bowl of Otter Valley ice cream in one hand and picks up the envelope with the other.

"We do have the proper sustenance," Sherlock adds, pointing to the ice cream. "We could survive here on love, sex, and twelve delectable flavours." 

"Give me the damnable envelope and let me open it," John says as he swipes it back from Sherlock. He unclasps it, turns it upside down. Two long, silky black cords fall out along with a note that simply reads: "Let's Pretend."

"This is so tedious." Sherlock rolls his eyes.

"We can make it a game," John suggests, picking up the cords. 

An exaggerated sigh escapes Sherlock's lips. "We could pretend that we're being held captive on the island against our will and threatened with hideous tortures like watching Mycroft eat multiple ten course meals," Sherlock says. He tiredly takes a large spoonful of double chocolate-caramel ice cream and shovels it into his mouth. 

John stretches his legs out on the bed. Kicking the quilt aside, he twirls the cords in his hands, then begins practicing tying knots. He finishes a bowline and tests it, snapping the cord tight. 

"You're not taking this seriously," John says, rolling over before flattening himself out on the bed next to Sherlock. He unties the knot and starts a new one. Sherlock watches John's fingers intently as he connects the two cords with a double-surgeon's knot. 

"It should be some sort of fantasy we could actually have some fun with," John suggests. "We could pretend that I am an alpha, you are an omega. You've just gone unexpectedly into heat, and I'm forced to knot you." 

Sherlock opens his eyes almost as wide as his mouth. "Oh, John!" he sings out in a mock-falsetto voice. "Your knot is sooo big. Will it fit?" He smirks as he points his spoon at where the cords are connected. 

John flicks the cord tails at Sherlock and cracks them against Sherlock's thigh. "You still aren't taking this seriously. Be creative!" 

"Ouch!" he says, but his face flushes. "We also already have a drawer full of sex toys." Sherlock waves him off. "I'd rather eat this ice cream."

"Come on. Give it a go, or I'll make you share that ice cream."

Sherlock's shoulders sag. "Very well. We could pretend that you're Sherlock Holmes and I'm John Watson, and that you know nothing of sex whatsoever, and I, Three Continents Watson, must instruct you." 

"That's more like what I had in mind. Hmm, but what about this cord?" John unties the cord and forms a honda knot. "Another role reversal: I could pretend to be you as a virgin, or...we could pretend that you are a drug lord, and I am a rent boy who will do anything to get a fix." 

"Sometimes, John, you can be an arse." 

"Sorry," John says. "I'd like to be in your arse. Or you in mine. I could be your cowboy, and you could be my cowgirl. I could lasso you. And maybe I could get into the bedside table drawer and use that big purple dildo." 

Sherlock takes another spoonful of ice cream into his mouth. A smear of chocolate caramel lingers on his lip, and he licks it off. "Will you drop the sex toys!" 

"That would hardly be sanitary." 

"Yes, Dr. Watson. We must be clean." His talented tongue licks the spoon. "I doubt some of those toys even fit into human bodies." 

"How will you ever know if you don't try them all?" 

"What about one hundred and one creative uses for ice cream..." Sherlock hums. 

"That has promise. But we need more background. Some story behind it. Including the cord." 

"Why?" 

"To make it more...interesting. It's a challenge. Hot with cold," he says, swiping the spoon from Sherlock and taking a scoop of his ice cream. 

Sherlock leans back against the headboard of the bed with his pillow propped up behind him and sets the bowl of ice cream on his bedside table. "I could pretend you're my personal sex toy that I've decided to keep with me always. I'll bind your wrists to this bed with those cords. You'll be at my mercy." 

"Hmm. I'd have to survive on love and double chocolate caramel ice cream." 

"You'll be my prisoner of love then?"

"The Game is on." 

Sherlock leans over and opens the infamous Drawer of Sex Toys. 

"Wait. Not the dildo." 

"Hmph, if you insist. Throw me the cords," Sherlock says. 

John tosses them at Sherlock, who snatches them out of the air, holds them taut between his hands, then crack! snaps them together. 

"Remove your pants, captain," Sherlock orders in his deepest baritone. 

John is all too happy to comply as he slips his white boxers off his hips. Sherlock absentmindedly slides the cord between his long fingers while watching John disrobe. John lies back and looks up at him. 

Sherlock whips into action and grabs one of John's wrists. 

"In the interest of creating the scene, you need to struggle," Sherlock says, rolling on top of him. "Safeword?" he asks, eyebrows raised.

"Um...Otter Valley." John squirms under him and twists his body trying to get free, yet not enough to throw Sherlock off. 

"Otter Valley it is." He straddles John, thumping down hard on his chest. "A bit of fight from my captain. That's good. I like a good tumble." He holds John's arms in place above his head. 

John gasps at the speed with which Sherlock whips one of the cords around his wrist while holding the other wrist firm to the mattress. Sherlock's eyes go dark, and John shivers as he ties the cord to the bedpost.

“Struggle all you like, captain," Sherlock says, beaming down at him. "I’ll not be in any hurry to ravage you.” 

Sherlock's grin turns wicked as he grabs John's other wrist and knots the cord. John notices that he's careful to place his own fingers between the knot and John's wrist so that it won't restrict his circulation. Sherlock secures the other end of the cord to the opposite bedpost. John tugs to test Sherlock's knots. 

"Be sure to tell me if they get too tight," Sherlock says and John nods. 

He continues to leer down at John's naked and flushed form. He makes a show of grasping his long cock in his hand and strokes it firmly until it stands tall and proud. He shifts around the bed as John lifts his head to watch.

"Maybe I should spread these lovely legs and bind your ankles." Sherlock sits on his haunches between John's thighs to admire his captive. "You shaved them just for me." He runs his hands up John's calves, over his knees, and caresses the top of his legs. "So smooth."

“Maybe you should have turned me over,” John says. 

"Captain Watson, please refrain from telling me what I should or shouldn't do. Must I gag you too?" As he admires John spread before him, he rubs his chin in thought. He leans down and begins to sniff and lick, starting between his thighs at his scrotum. He pushes John's legs farther apart and props his bum up with a pillow. With the tip of his tongue, he teases John's pucker. Quickly reduced to whimpers and moans, John melts into the mattress. 

Sherlock adjusts the pillow under John's arse, winks at John and takes an open-mouthed taste of John's aching cock. Once done, he sits back, tipping his head to the side.

"Mmm. Salty," Sherlock says after a moment. He tests the head of his cock with another long lick. "Very salty. And what goes with salty, captain?" He reaches across John and snatches the bowl of ice cream off the nightstand. He takes a generous dripping spoonful and holds it just above the tip of John's leaking cock. 

John gasps as at the cold ice cream drizzles down the length of his penis. He jerks his wrists and pulls against the cords as Sherlock bends down, flattens his tongue, and laps it off. He bathes his heated cock with long, lingering swipes. Done, he sits back on his haunches again, admiring John and the mess he's making of him.

“Perfect combination of sweet and salty. It's an entirely new flavor. What shall we call it? Captain Watson’s Double Chocolate-Caramel Tower of Wonder? Ah, yes! With nuts!” 

With a flick of his wrist, Sherlock drizzles more ice cream onto John's bollocks. He sets the bowl aside, and with a devious smile, laps across his bollocks before taking the right testicle into his mouth and gently sucking.

John tries his best not to tug too hard on his bindings, but this is driving him around the bend. Sherlock continues by going back up to his cock and running the edges of his teeth gently over the tip. John does his best not to giggle, but can’t suppress it. 

Sherlock growls in answer and snatches the bowl of double chocolate caramel off the night table. Holding it in one hand, he reaches into the bowl with his other to scoop out a handful. John squeaks and his hips jerk about trying to escape as Sherlock raises an eyebrow and smears John’s entire groin with the melting goo. 

“Look what a mess you’ve made,” Sherlock complains, placing his ice-cream-covered hands on John's hips. “I guess it's down to me to clean you up.”

He sets to work slurping his Captain Watson sundae. John twists and squirms as Sherlock’s mouth and tongue work around the root of his cock, yet avoid the treasure. Around and around, nipping and licking and smearing his lips over John’s navel, in his sandy pubic hair, down where the sticky chocolate stream has dripped between his thighs, leaving pink clean skin in his wake. He pays special attention to opening John's arse with his tongue.

“Oh, Sherlock.” 

“That’s Pirate Captain Holmes to you, prisoner,” he huffs out. 

“Almost gone,” Sherlock says a bit forlornly as he dips a couple of fingers back into the ice cream bowl. He holds them out in front of his face, then reaches between John's legs and slips them inside his waiting arse. 

“Oh, fuck!” John wails.

“Yes, I believe that to be the point of all this,” Sherlock agrees, moving his fingers around inside John's hot hole. He bends and laps around John's puckered-tight heat where it's trapped his fingers inside. He takes a moment to slide his tongue back and down to John’s tailbone before coming up and around his fingers again.

The muscle holding Sherlock’s fingers twitches as Sherlock’s tongue lathers the area. 

“You have a beautiful tight arse, Captain. I think I need to plunge my sword into its fiery depths.”

“Jesus, Sherlock...I mean Pirate Captain Holmes, sir.”

“Much better. Now, let’s try some of this new lubricant.” Sherlock takes his hand and slathers the final remains of the double chocolate-caramel onto his own cock. 

John stares. He doesn’t know what to think about all this. 

“Knees apart,” Sherlock orders. "More. That's it, my Captain."

John thinks Sherlock has gone a bit insane, and Sherlock thinks he is perfect as the disheveled, wanton captive tied to his bed.

"Time's up! I hope you're ready." He slides his double chocolate wand of wonder inside. John exhales with odd hiccup-like sounds. 

Sherlock can’t help smearing what's left of the ice cream around John’s arse. With a gasp, he pushes his cock completely into John until his thumbs are on each side at the root of his cock. He regains control, inhaling and exhaling slowly until he's centered, then pushes in and pulls out with purpose.

“Oh, god," John says, awe in his voice. "Yes."

"Please, Captain Watson. Let's pretend."

"Right,” John says. “Please stop.” 

“Shh,” Sherlock says. “You’re perfect.”

"Don't. Stop. Don't stop." He pleads, half giggling. He’s not sure how far to go with this little game. "Not that...anything but that..."

“What?” Sherlock demands, mocking John’s pleading voice. “Not that. Anything but…double chocolate-caramel.”

“My God, Captain Holmes. How can you expect me to come if you keep making me laugh?”

Which makes Sherlock determined to make his captain climax. His hips hitch as his cock rocks into John’s arse. 

“When I say come, you will come. And you will stop laughing.” Sherlock snaps his hips and hits John’s prostate with precision. “Is this working?”

John nods once and gulps. "Gah! Yes." His leg muscles tremble and his shoulder twinges a bit, but his wrists don't hurt. He wouldn’t bloody notice if they did. 

"No!" John shouts. What Sherlock is doing? Now he’s moving slowly, so slowly, with exquisite control, keeping him right at the edge. 

“You bloody devil,” John gasps. His bound hands are in tight fists grasping the cords. 

“It’s time, Captain,” Sherlock says shakily. “Come.”

Sherlock thrusts into him. Sweat slides down Sherlock's nose, his black curls wet on his forehead, his eyes trained on John's. 

“Come, my captain,” Sherlock repeats hoarsely as he hits John's sweet spot again.

One more deep thrust, and John spurts out, adding to the sticky mess that’s already on his tummy. 

"Bloody hell," groans John as Sherlock buries himself deep inside and comes.

John’s body is a shambles, but he's all smiles and sighs and shaking limbs. He murmurs Sherlock’s name as his love collapses next to him. A moment later, Sherlock begins to gently untie the cords.

“Nice?” Sherlock asks with a soft smile. 

John nods weakly. With his right hand free, he flexes his fingers and brushes them against Sherlock’s cheek.

“You are a marvel.” 

“And you are a double chocolate caramel mess,” Sherlock says as he finishes releasing John. “Now that you’re out of those satin love cords, let's move along to part two. On to the shower!” 

John slaps Sherlock's bum as he stands.

"'Let's Pretend' is the title of a song you know," John says. 

"What? I thought we weren't going to play Mycroft's games any more."

"We played with his cords..."

Sherlock sighs. "As in chords in a song?"

John rubs his wrists. "Chord progression."

"Ah, harmonics. That's how we turn off the fence. But do we really want to?" Sherlock smirks. "Baby, let's pretend that we don't know the answer," he sings. 

"Actually, the lyrics are 'baby let's pretend we could always be together.'"

"Really, John? We don't have to pretend. Not ever again. Shower?"

…

_That’s what could have happened. Or perhaps…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We welcome your kind comments and kudos. 😊❤️😊


	14. Chapter 14, by Iwantthatcoat

Back in the bedroom, John turned the combination lock to read SPINALIRRITATION. To his delight, it opened, revealing a shallow compartment in the bottom of the drawer. John removed the manilla envelope it contained.

“What do you think is in here?” he asked.

Sherlock picked it up and held it to the light. “It’s sealed with adhesive. Mycroft doesn’t lick envelopes. The document within is kept between two pieces of cardboard. Presumably fragile, then.” Sherlock passed it to John. “Well, go on. Open it.”

John carefully broke the seal and removed a yellowed parchment from between the protective covering. “It's another puzzle. An old one?”

Sherlock looked over John’s shoulder as he held the paper gingerly with both hands. They each took a role in the question and answer sequence within the document.

“‘Whose was it?’” read Sherlock.

“‘They who are gone,’” replied John.

“‘Who shall have it?’” Sherlock continued.

John paused for a moment to savour the sound of his lover’s voice before reading the next section. “‘They who have come.’” John snickered. “That would be us now, wouldn’t it?”

“John. You do realise that each time we place our minds firmly in the gutter we end up interpreting the puzzle incorrectly?”

John laughed. “Can’t help it. Brain damage, you know. Why we were institutionalised, right? What number was ‘constantly thinking about sex’?”

Sherlock smiled.

“You know, I wouldn’t put it past him to have it mean exactly that. Anyone who would stock a nightstand with—”

“Stop reminding me.” Sherlock quickly turned his attention back to the parchment. “‘Where was the moon?’”

“‘Behind the oak.’”

Sherlock frowned, then read, “‘When was it done?’”

“‘At the transformation.’”

“‘How was it stepped?’”

“‘North by one and by one, northeast by two and by two, east by two and by two, south by one and by one, southwest by two and by two, west by two and by two. And so, under.’ What the hell is this about, Sherlock?”

“I have some ideas. That last section makes sense to me at least, but the rest is sounding like it may be something I’m incapable of solving.”

John looked up, anxiously.

“My brother knows both my strengths and my weaknesses.” Sherlock sighed. “Well, we’ll read it through, at least. ‘What shall I give?’”

“‘All that this world can offer’.”

“‘Why should I give it?’”

“‘For the sake of their trust,’” finished John, as he looked up at Sherlock, waiting for an explanation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We welcome your kind comments and kudos. 😊❤️😊


	15. Chapter 15, by Iwantthatcoat

The moon shone brightly that evening as Sherlock stepped out into the yard and sighed.

John looked across the bleak, yet still somehow impressive, landscape. “Is there supposed to be an oak tree here? It all looks so desolate.”

“That tree was at our summer home.”

John was taken aback. Sherlock had a summer home. His family probably had all kinds of money. Well, of course they did. This brother of his must have limitless resources to have set this whole thing up. John felt the sting of inferiority. Sherlock was more beautiful, smarter, and now wealthier as well. How could this prize want someone like him over the long term? His value was solely as a pair of necessary retinas. John shook his head to drive the feeling out.

Sherlock misread the headshake as an assessment of their ability to complete the puzzle. “I know exactly how tall the tree was, even if it only exists in memory. Mummy stormed outside, furious with me for climbing all the way to the very top— right at the roofline of our house— where the branches I stood upon were thin and brittle. I calculated it later, to see just how high up I actually had been. But I have no idea how long a shadow it would cast without the actual tree nearby, or one of a similar height. And there are none in this climate zone, save the scattered, smaller ones which have been recently planted. Determining the angles or light and shadow exceeds my capabilities.”

“Surely someone who can multiply complicated numbers like you already did knows more advanced maths?”

“Deleted it. Not useful. When would I ever use trigonometry? The mechanics of physical and electromagnetic waves and oscillations. Angle of elevation, structural load, roof slopes, ground surfaces and many other aspects in architecture. Calculating speed, distance, and direction in flight using vectors to create triangles. Navigation arcs. Does any of that sound relevant to my work?”

“Well, trigonometry can help to calculate a projectile’s trajectory— like figuring out which angle a bullet was fired at?”

Sherlock humphed.

“Your brother was aware you wouldn’t know this. So... a test for me, then, is it? First, I’ll have you know, this isn’t trigonometry. It’s setting up a proportion. Height of oak is to length of shadow it casts as height of… something else...is to length of shadow it casts. I may not remember the fancy name for it, but I know about right triangles in relation to each other. And the rest of it is just...walking. I guess.” John tried to hide his elation at his newly restored sense of importance, but he knew he must be failing miserably watching Sherlock chuckle. “Or did you know all this and you’re just trying to make me feel useful?”

“No, I… do tend to only keep things in my memory which I find practical. It has been known to backfire, on occasion. I can make up for it by processing new information quickly. When I’m not on a deserted patch of arctic land and have access to appropriate resources, at least. But that doesn’t make you any less...useful. This is as humble as I get. I suggest you enjoy it while it lasts.”

“I’ll be needing you to get through the rest of it.”

“And I you.” Sherlock’s smile took on a hint of mischief; he clearly knew something about the walking section of the puzzle which John did not. Or maybe he was alluding to something beyond their time here. The rest of it. Yes, John needed Sherlock for the rest of it. And Sherlock needed John.

“The hour of transformation would be midnight, then? One day transforming to the next? Or do you think we are meant to wait for a new lunar cycle or change in seasons? I don’t know the date.” If Sherlock understood the part about the steps, he seemed far less certain of the other sections of the puzzle.

“Yeah, let’s go with midnight. If we don’t seem to be getting anywhere we can try again at another time. So, how tall was the tree?”

“The same height as the house. 12.3 metres.”

“So we need to find something just over a metre. 1.23 if we can manage it. See how long a shadow it casts, then multiply it by ten. Is there a metre stick in the woodshed?”

“I’m almost certain there will be.”

Sure enough, the metre stick lay just beside the shed door. When John placed both his fists on top of it, it was just shy of the 1.23 metres. Sherlock slowly removed John’s hand and replaced it with his own. “Perfect.”

“You don’t think he...knew that would work, do you? I mean...the both of us together…? Do you believe he chose us for each other? Picked me out of a lineup of madmen as having the right characteristics for…. Not my hand. I mean...all of it?”

“It’s almost enough to make you forgive him, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. Almost. I’d prefer not to. Best not to dwell on it.”

“I would prefer to think we didn’t need him for this...for us... to have happened, eventually. Some things are just, right, without having been planned.”

“So, we have our measuring stick, an old surveyor's stake, some rope, and the moon, and it’s about an hour to midnight. However shall we pass the time?”

Sherlock eyed the rusty piece of metal dubiously, lost in thought.

“What are you thinking, my mad genius?”

“I’m wondering, if we are being watched outside of this house, which Mycroft would find more disturbing: My securing your hands with the rope, anchoring them to the ground with this stake, and having my way with you... bringing you repeatedly to the very brink of orgasm to either be brought over the edge or sent away from it by a good slap to the arse with this convenient flat stick... or your doing the same to me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We welcome your kind comments and kudos. 😊❤️😊


	16. Chapter 16, by Iwantthatcoat

“Either is...very good,” John stammered.

“Ah.” Sherlock grinned. “I promise to keep an eye on the temperature. Wouldn't want you to get too cold. Now, strip.”

John nodded quickly and began removing his clothing, which Sherlock carefully arranged beneath him as a buffer between his back and the frozen ground.

“Hands up.” Sherlock wrapped the rope around John’s upper arms just below the wrists, then anchored them into the ground with the stake. He loomed over him, running his fingers down his sides, then traced a lingering finger back up to the center of John’s chest. “The moonlight becomes you, John.”

John was suddenly struck by a terrible disadvantage with the current arrangement; he would not get to see Sherlock’s pale skin glow in the moonlight. He was about to say so when he shivered, and Sherlock draped his body over John’s like a blanket. John was grateful for the warmth of it— it really was quite chilly out here— but beyond that simple comfort the weight of Sherlock pinning him down felt very, very… good.

Sherlock removed his coat and placed it over John’s upper body, leaving his lower half in the open air. It made him feel even more exposed, as if that were possible. And with the low temperature, John wasn’t at all certain that he would react quickly to the— well, that assessment was wrong. Sherlock’s mouth had gone straight to his cock, no foreplay, no wasted time, and John jolted forward from the shock of it.

There were no teasing touches, no lingering kisses. Sherlock meant business, and John had no choice but to go along with it.

“John Watson, I intend to make you come no less than three times. Eventually. Of course, I shall have to stop in between to ensure you are adequately warmed. So. It might take a while.” He smiled, then went back to John’s cock.

Oh God, the determination alone had John nearly there. Sherlock’s mouth was unbelievably warm on his skin, and when he removed it the moment he thought John was too lost in sensation, it grew very nearly unbearably cold—a deep chill seemed to pierce him to his core, a flame of ice. But thinking past the cold, there remained a comforting certainty that he was being carefully attended to. Almost scrutinised, in fact. No, absolutely scrutinised. And damn if that didn't have him feeling both safe and deeply cared for and completely unnerved at the same time.

“Not yet, John,” chastised Sherlock, as he slid underneath his coat to warm them both.

Sherlock’s hand was on him now, moving slowly and steadily, and John closed his eyes and relaxed into it, breath quickening. Three times Sherlock had him trembling at the edge, and three times he had backed away—thankfully not with a blast of sharp, cold air, but with a loss of contact that left John wanting. With each renewed climb upward, he seemed to surge just a little higher, relax just a little deeper, so that each return back to “normal” brought more and more pleasure. He was expecting yet another rise and sharp drop when Sherlock leaned in to kiss him. Sherlock grinned and whispered, “I will. In ten seconds, I will stop entirely. So you will have to get there before I reach ten. One… two…” John’s mind was racing. He was so very ready for this, and his body rocked forward with each increasing number until he found he was so far past ready that he was actually holding himself back at nine, waiting for that deep, rich voice to reach ten. When he did, John came hard and fast, rushing over Sherlock’s hand. The hand that was... still moving. “Twice more, John.”

“I don’t think I—“

“Twice more.”

“It takes me some time to—“”

“I am well aware of precisely how much time you require. I have made a detailed study of it. We have 45 minutes remaining before midnight. That is more than sufficient. Enough talk.” Sherlock had decided to put his mouth to a grander purpose than continuing this debate.

“But, I….” John’s voice trailed off. The contrast of the warmth of Sherlock’s mouth and the frigid air hitting his exposed hands and face seemed to heighten every sensation. The air was nearly intolerable now, the warmth scorching in its intensity, the pace Sherlock kept, relentless. John’s body simply surrendered. Far less time had passed than he had ever thought possible before he was succumbing once more with a groan, followed by a weak plea to end it. Sherlock did yet another scrutinising assessment. “I think you have one more in you before our moon is in place. But I am not entirely without mercy, John. if you cannot handle this, I will take you inside and...take you, inside.”

“I’m… fine,” said John. After all, it wasn’t exactly dangerous at this point, just, a bit uncomfortable. And a bit uncomfortable was… also...good. John’s fleeting thought regarding the need to purchase a thesaurus was immediately derailed as Sherlock put his mouth on John’s body once more, but this time just a bit further south. John gasped, his cock struggled to return to its previous state, and it seemed to be rather determined.

John instinctually reached for Sherlock’s shoulder, but the sharp tug at his arms reconnected him to the upper part of his body, reminding him that his hands were solidly anchored in place. The urge to touch Sherlock was overwhelming, His body ached with it. No, his body just ached with all of it...the heat, the cold, the amazement that they were here, that this was happening. He tried to lift his upper body while his arms were still secured to catch a glimpse of this remarkable man who was working him open with his clever tongue. Now his finger was breeching him slowly, carefully, as John finally gave in to the muscle strain and eased his body back to the ground.

He doubted he had the chance to recover, but it didn’t seem to matter, his hips were eagerly pushing forward, taking in every last bit of sensation as Sherlock found his prostate, gently ran his finger along the outer edge, and moved his mouth to rest at the base of his cock, sucking gently. This was new, and amazing, and...and…. John tried to say something to express the thought, but what came out was more of a groan mixed with a sigh. He didn’t think he could come from this, but it felt so damn good that he was more than content to simply lie there and feel as it slowly built within him. He leaned up once more, or rather tried to, but his muscles were locking up, already surprisingly tight, and...oh. There is was. Still advancing, slow, steady, inexorable. “Oh, God I can….”

Sherlock heard the words, responding with a gentle kiss against his perineum, but other than this brief acknowledgement there was no change in his movements. He wasn’t going to stop. Not until he had brought John there just one more time.

“You’re...you’re….” John felt it. Felt his body tighten, contract, felt the rush of orgasm. He wasn’t sure if he ejaculated or not, but Sherlock’s shift so his tongue was now on the head of John’s cock had indicated that he had.

“Hands...back,” he said weakly. Sherlock quickly pulled the stake free and John’s hands slipped out of the loop. He wrapped them around Sherlock’s back and pulled him downward. Sherlock twitched at their temperature and placed John’s hands between their bodies, gently rubbing along his upper arms, as John fought against the wave of exhaustion that threatened to overtake him.

“I must admit, the lassitude was something I failed to take into account. Please do stay awake, John. We still have much to do tonight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We welcome your kind comments and kudos. 😊❤️😊


	17. Chapter 17, by Iwantthatcoat

John struggled to his feet. “Right. Ummm. Moonshadow.”

“The moon was behind the oak,” said Sherlock, looking skyward. “Measuring stick, John.”

John brought it over and they placed their hands on top. It cast a shadow well away from the house.

“Mark it.”

John sighed. He truly was a bit weary, and now Sherlock was ordering him around the yard. But he was intrigued. And Sherlock seemed to have some idea of what was going to happen, whereas he had none whatsoever, so...lackey seemed an apt role for the time being. He made a mark in the frozen ground with his foot.

“That is our starting point,” said Sherlock.

“And we follow the steps to lead to... what? Buried treasure?”

“Well, not exactly.”

“It said ‘How was it stepped?’, right?”

“North by one and by one, northeast by two and by two, east by two and by two, south by one and by one, southwest by two and by two, west by two and by two. And so, under.”

“Yeah, under. Like buried under.”

“It’s not the buried part which I feel is misleading, John. It’s the path to it. Do you recognize the sequence of steps?”

“They’re… just steps. Should I?”

“Come here.”

John stepped forward.

“Closer.”

John moved directly in front of Sherlock, pressing against his chest.

“Leading and following is a necessity, so…” Sherlock put his arm around John’s waist. “North. One ...that’s me...and by one...that’s you. One step. Forward for me, backward for you.”

John smiled and recited the next line. “Northeast by two and by two,” as they stepped diagonally.

“Now east, two, and south one.”

“It’s a box step. We go southwest two steps and west two steps and we are back where we started. He...he wanted us to dance. In the moonlight. That’s…a rather convoluted way to get us to do it, isn't it?”

“It was entirely unnecessary. I already know how I feel about you.” Sherlock shouted into the air, “I don’t need any artificial romantic gestures, Mycroft!”

“That doesn’t make it any less...nice.” John placed his hand on Sherlock’s back this time and they did another simple step back to their marked spot. John attempted to dip Sherlock and they both nearly fell over and laughed.

“And so under, Sherlock. What is under? Do we just dig and find out?”

“‘What shall I give?’”

“All that this world can offer.”

“Why should I give it?”

“For the sake of their trust. It’s a gift. Of everything.”

“Of all the world can offer.” Sherlock looked at John. “It's our freedom. To gain back our trust.”

“The ground is frozen. We need something sharp. The surveyors post!”

John chipped away at the ground until he finally made a small hole. There was a yellow wire, easily spotted in the loosened soil. He pulled at it. “This must deactivate the fence. Wasn’t there more to the rhyme though? At the beginning?”

““Whose was it?’, ‘They who are gone’, ‘Who shall have it?’, ‘They who have come’.”

John looked up, still grasping the wire. “They who are gone sounds like someone who was on this island before us. Someone else who escaped? Which doesn't make much sense. Or… someone dead.”

“My money’s on dead. And we are going to have what was— Oh.”

“Oh?”

“They who have come… is us, John. Though I prefer to think Mycroft wasn’t aware of the double entendre.”

“So we will have something? Is it in here?”

“It doesn't seem as if the ground has been recently disturbed, so I wouldn’t expect it to be with the wire. But I do expect at some point we will find something abandoned which is now ours.”

John looked at the fence. “Let’s do it. Let’s cut the power and deactivate it.” John grabbed the stake and drove it into the wire. An alarm sounded— a shrill buzz, followed by whirring of the gate descending into the ground, and bringing into view a small boat docked on the previously blocked off shoreline. Boat was an understatement. More like a tiny yacht. They walked up a small ramp and boarded the vessel.

There were navigation charts, provisions, and a rather incongruous pirate hat.

“Is there a treasure map somewhere?”

They searched the boat, Sherlock the upper deck and John the lower, and after a few minutes John shouted out, “I think I’ve found it!”

On the bed was a small wooden box shaped like a treasure chest. John eyed it suspiciously. “I don’t trust him. What if there’s a spider in it or something?”

“I think he wants to make amends. And that would be a poor way to do so.”

“Yeah, I suppose.”

Sherlock held up the box, examining it carefully. “It looks familiar, but I can’t quite place it. It’s as if I have seen this before.” Sherlock sat down on the bed to open it. John sat down next to him and peered inside. It contained two velvet drawstring bags. Sherlock quickly slammed the lid shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We welcome your kind comments and kudos. 😊❤️😊


	18. Chapter 18, by Iwantthatcoat

“John. I…”

John stared at the box. “What is it?”

“It’s… a rather valuable family heirloom which…” Sherlock placed the box on the foot of the bed and blinked repeatedly, staring off into the distance.

“Sherlock?”

“We have our freedom, John. We can leave this place.” Sherlock frowned. “Start a new life, with—”

“I’ll be glad finally to leave. I could really go for some warm weather. Like a real beach, with actual sand on it. Land’s End. Maybe Brighton. But. You’re…” John looked up at Sherlock and saw nothing but sadness in his eyes. “What’s wrong? What’s in there that is so upsetting? Open it up. If it is something horrible, at least I want to know what it is.”

“It’s not the items that are horrible. In fact, they are rather exquisite.” Sherlock opened the box again, this time with far greater care, removed the bags and offered one to John, placing it gently in his outstretched hand. He held the other tightly in his fist.

John loosened the opening to reveal what had once been a damaged gold band with engraving covering the surface, but had been restored in a quite remarkable way. The ring itself was golden in colour, and there was no reason to believe it was not high-carat gold, which accounted for the marred surface; the pits due to age had been patched with another metal, giving it a dappled appearance. That lighter material sparkled in the moonlight. A large, square-cut stone was sunken into the band. John held it closely for a better view of the faded scrollwork.

“White gold. To fill in the damage. It is a far stronger alloy, and the decision was made to do the repairs in a manner that preserved its antiquity rather than attempted to make it appear as if new. And yes, that is a diamond. Mycroft, being the eldest, was given them. He certainly has no intention of getting married— for several reasons— so he must believe that I….” Sherlock shook his head. “He brought us both here against our will, and now we… now you can return to the whatever you were removed from. I have no expectations that what had been a suitable diversion when confined to an asylum would remain so in the larger world.”

“Look… Sherlock...I understand why you would resent this whole situation. And me. Because I’m part of it. We didn’t choose each other, so much as were chosen. But let’s just say that we had met in a… I don’t know, a lab somewhere, a research hospital where you were doing chemical experiments and… or through a mutual friend instead of your scheming brother. What then? Would you...have wanted this?”

“Don’t be ridiculous, John, of course I want...would have wanted this— if it hadn’t been set up as part of my brother’s stint as God, with a penchant for predestination.”

“It wasn’t necessary for you to have even liked me. I’m sure all he was looking for was someone to keep your brain occupied. Figuring me out would help you to pass the time.”

“I figured you out in the first five minutes. No. He selected you for me. And now he wants this.” Sherlock stared at the ring in John’s hand, then held the open box in front of John, who turned the ring over in his hand one last time before reluctantly returning it to its holder. Sherlock noticed the hesitation. “John?”

“Just admiring it, is all. The craftsmanship. How old are they?”

“Best estimate would be late seventeenth century. We had, some assets, in an earlier time. You’re interested?”

“Well, things like that are...fascinating.”

“Quite.” Sherlock returned the box to on the edge of the bed, folded hands in his lap, and stared down at them.

“And I think they are— That is to say… I…” John sighed. “Look, Sherlock, I don’t care how we met. The fact is, we did. And whether or not we wear rings, or whether it makes your brother thrilled or miserable...well, I don’t really give a toss about that.”

Sherlock looked up, earnestly. “You don’t?”

“I think the best thing to do in this instance is to not pay him any mind one way or the other. I won’t make myself miserable just to avoid his being happy.”

Sherlock’s mouth turned up on the corners, suggesting only the possibility of a smile, before falling back into place. “And, given all the people in the world...I’m somehow to believe that you would still choose me.”

“I intend to make you believe that, yes. I’d expect it would take some time though. Maybe I should start now.”

“Yes. Maybe you should.”

Sherlock smiled as John lowered him onto the bed. He placed the box on the top of the nightstand, determined not to examine if there were a variety of sex toys waiting for them in the drawer.

…

_That’s what might have happened. Or maybe…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We welcome your kind comments and kudos. 😊❤️😊


	19. Chapter 19, by DaisyFairy

*Back in the bedroom, John turned the combination lock to read SPINALIRRITATION. To his delight, it opened, revealing a shallow compartment in the bottom of the drawer. John removed the manilla envelope it contained.

“What do you think is in here?” he asked.*

John opened the envelope eagerly, but as he started to pull the thick sheaf of paper out he saw the front page.

Dr. John H Watson  
Medical Records

He felt a cold spike of dread shoot through him. This file would contain everything, all of his secrets, the reasons for him being committed. He couldn’t bear the thought of being so exposed, so vulnerable, in front of Sherlock. He couldn’t help worrying that Sherlock would see him as weak, or broken, or even worse pity him. He shoved the papers back into the envelope before Sherlock had a chance to look at them and tried very hard to control his breathing, to remain calm.

“Let’s look at this later.” he said with false nonchalance, dropping the envelope back into the drawer and closing the lid.

Sherlock looked at him in confusion but before he could say anything John continued, “I feel like some fresh air, let’s go for a walk.”

He really did need fresh air, he suddenly felt hemmed in, confined, the beginnings of panic were prickling at the edges of his mind and he wanted to see the sky and the sea.

Sherlock nodded uncertainly, his eyes lingered on the drawer hiding John’s secret, but he didn’t say anything as they left the bedroom and made their way outside.

*****

As soon as John saw the blue sky with wispy white clouds scattered high above, and felt the warm sun on his skin a weight lifted, his panic dissolving away. Freedom. He smiled to himself, trapped on an island by Sherlock’s maniac of a brother, but he felt freer now than he had since the bullet slammed into his shoulder.

John caught Sherlock staring at him with narrowed eyes, understandably confused about their sudden excursion and now John smiling like a loon. John shrugged and entwined their fingers and giving Sherlock’s hand a gentle squeeze.

“Walk with me?” he asked gently.

“Of course.” Sherlock murmured and lead the way towards the outer wall.

They walked near the electified fence all of the way around the island in silence. John watched the way that the sun, sinking lower now, cast long shadows on the ground and the clouds were beginning to tinge with oranges and pinks around the edges. He watched the grass and heather moving in the slight breeze, and the seabirds wheeling overhead. But mostly he watched Sherlock. The man he had known for so little time really, but it felt like forever. Watched the planes of his face, the shadows falling differently as they changed direction, watched the way his hair moved in the wind, and thought that he looked so much healthier than when they first met. He had rounded out, not that he was overweight, far from it, but he seemed less bony, his skin seemed to have a healthy glow, and he seemed….happy, if still a bit confused about the way today was going.

About halfway around the island Sherlock spotted something ahead of them and turned to John in excitement, a huge honest grin on his face and dragged John over to see. In amongst the wildflowers Sherlock pointed out a steady stream of bees emerging from and disappearing into a small hole in the ground at the base of a large gorse bush. His eyes lit up as he spouted facts about the bees and giggled when one landed on his nose. That was when John knew, he was irretrievably in love with this man and he didn’t want any secrets between them. He would show Sherlock his records, and tell him why he had been locked away.

By the time Sherlock had finished his supply of bee facts the sun was almost touching the boundary wall. They made their way back to a spot just a few minutes away from the compound door and sat on a mound of grass amongst the sandy clifftop soil to watch the stars come out. They sat side by side with arms slung around each others waists and John’s head resting on Sherlock shoulder. John had a fleeting thought that they fit together perfectly, almost as if they were made for each other.

After a minute or two Sherlock broke the silence, “Why don't you want me to see what's in the envelope?”

Johns resolve crumbled, he wanted to share it, but this moment was too perfect to ruin, he stumbled over his words as he replied, “I.. I'm just not ready to talk about it. Please. Can you trust me?”

Sherlock turned and smiled at him. “Of course I trust you. You’ll show me later? When you're ready?”

Blinking back a few tears that had formed in his eyes John nodded. “Yeah, just, not yet.”

“Ok.” Sherlock linked their fingers and tipped his head up to the sky basking in the last of the day's sunshine. Giving John's hand a squeeze he said "Now we need to find something else to do. Do you know something we haven't tried?"

John smiled gratefully "No, what?"

"We’ve never had sex outside. Shall we change that?"

John looked around dubiously. "You checked the bedroom for cameras, but out here there could be cameras anywhere."

Sherlock caressed John's hip absently as he replied "Around the door and fence probably. It is unlikely every inch of the island is covered."

John could feel himself relaxing into the steady pressure against his hip, leaning more into Sherlock he protested weakly. "You can't be sure though. Your brother could be watching us right now."

"Then he can either turn off his surveillance equipment or prepare to be scarred for life." Sherlock kissed John hard, pressing him back into the soft ground.

"What are you thinking?" John gasped when he was released from the kiss.

“Let's just see where the mood takes us.” Sherlock said, slipping his nimble fingers up under John's shirt and pushing his thigh in-between John's legs.

John pushed his hand up under Sherlock’s shirt in return and ran his hands up Sherlock’s back, pulling him closer.

They kissed in a bed of wildflowers, the only sounds were the gentle lapping of waves against the cliffs, the buzzing of bees and the occasional call of a seabird.

Very soon those sounds were accompanied by soft moans as things got more heated. John needed to feel more of Sherlock’s skin against him and pushed him back just enough strip him of his shirt. He tried to remove his own, but he only managed to get the buttons undone when Sherlock was on him, kissing his jaw, caressing his chest and gently pinching his nipples to make him gasp.

All efforts to protest were abandoned when Sherlock’s hand slipped lower and tackled Johns fly to reach inside his pants. Johns breath caught as Sherlock’s fingertips brushed against his rapidly hardening cock.

John felt a sudden surge of adrenaline and flipped Sherlock onto his back. Kissing Sherlock almost desperately John shoved his trousers and pants down far enough to free himself and then did the same to Sherlock’s.

He lowered himself on top of Sherlock and clung to him as they rubbed together. Slightly too rough, but he couldn'tt even imagine leaving to fetch the lube.

Their cocks aligned as John ground their hips together, and Sherlock’s fingers gripping his hips almost painfully hard told him all he needed to know.

They quickly found a rhythm, hips bucking and grinding and their nerves singing. Sherlock below him was the only thing that existed and kisses soon gave way to panting as the air seemed too thin.

John felt his climax build, a pressure deep inside, and suddenly burst, his muscles spasming over and over, then a few aftershocks and he was done.

He felt like he was floating, he rolled to the side to try to catch his breath.

Sherlock cried out in frustration his eyes were wild and his hips were bucking up to try to find friction against a body that was no longer there.

John kissed his shoulder in apology and slicked his hand with the come which was decorating Sherlock’s stomach and chest. He closed it around Sherlock’s cock, and the wail that Sherlock made in response made John very glad they were the only people on the island. Sherlock fucked up into his hand and less than a minute later he was arching up off of the ground and adding to the mess on his stomach.

They each took a moment to gather their senses, then John cuddled up to Sherlock and whispered in his ear, “I love you.”

Sherlock turned his sleepy gaze onto him and murmured “I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We welcome your kind comments and kudos. 😊❤️😊


	20. Chapter 20, by DaisyFairy

The following morning John awoke in their bedroom and took in the sight of Sherlock snuggled into the sheets next to him. His face lax in sleep and his hair a riot, John thought he looked adorable. He took a deep breath and decided, this was the time, he was ready.

He pulled the thick envelope out from the drawer they were hidden in and gently kissed Sherlock’s cheek to wake him.

As Sherlock blinked sleepily John handed him the documents. Sherlock smiled up at him and shifted in the bed to sit up, leaning against the headboard.

He read the files while John waited nervously. He couldn’t stand the tension so sat stiffly on the edge of the bed and tried to read the book from his nightstand, but just found himself going over the same paragraph again and again without taking anything in.

Eventually Sherlock dropped the stack of papers into his lap, “As I expected, PTSD, suicidal thoughts, trust issues, nightmares, borderline abusive childhood, you are potentially a danger to the public. Nothing I hadn’t already worked out.”

John was totally non-plused, “But, but, really? You already knew?”

“Of course I did, maybe not every detail, but I had the general idea.”

John gingerly climbed back into the bed and laid a tentative hand on Sherlock’s thigh, he asked quietly, “Don’t you think I’m…broken or…weak?”

Sherlock scoffed, “After your experiences? No. Soldier with traumatic discharge, it’s a surprise it hasn’t affected you more.”

John felt a weight lift from his chest, he gave Sherlock’s thigh a quick squeeze, “I’m better now though, you don’t need to worry about me.”

Sherlock was quick to correct him, “Of course you aren’t ‘better'. Massively improved I grant you, but I saw how you reacted when I had that little mishap in the lab, and although you aren’t violent, you are far from a restful sleeper. But I am more than willing to help with the rest of your recovery.” He paused for a second, then shuffled the papers and handed half of them back to John. “Which brings us to this.”

John read the front page:

Mr. W. Sherlock S. Holmes  
Medical Records.

He should have realised that it wouldn’t just be him baring all, but he had been so caught up worrying about his own records he hadn’t given a thought to whether Sherlock’s would be in there too.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself John began to read. He already knew about the drugs, its hard to hide the track scars when you’ve been so intimate, but reading about the three near fatal overdoses hurt and made his eyes sting with tears.

“Was it on purpose?” he asked gently.

Sherlock threw himself back, lying across the bed with his head hanging off of the edge. “Mm, not exactly, but then I wasn’t really taking steps to ensure it didn’t happen.”

John gulped back a sob, “But now?”

“I’ve come to realise life can be more fun than the alternative, even without chemical enhancement. Not that the craving is gone as such, but keeping my brain active with those cases is helping, and maybe relationships aren’t as tedious as I previously believed.” He lifted his head briefly to flash John a massive grin which John found himself echoing.

“So, we’re ok?” John asked, hardly daring to believe how well this had gone.

“Yeah, we’re ok. We’re both a mess, but we can help each other to do better. Just never tell my brother that this insane puzzle island was a good idea.”

John chuckled, “Wouldn’t dream of it.” He picked the envelope up off of the bed to throw it aside when something fell out onto the duvet.

“Ah, another clue from my dear brother.” Sherlock said picking the item up. He turned it so that John could see that it was a ‘Advance to Go' card from Monopoly.

They spent a few minutes examining it for clues until John gave up, “It’s just a normal Monopoly Chance card. What does it mean?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We welcome your kind comments and kudos. 😊❤️😊


	21. Chapter 21, by DaisyFairy

After a few more minutes of twisting the card this way and that Sherlock too conceded that as far as he could see it was a normal monopoly card.

Deciding that the puzzle could wait they took a quick shower together to wash away the sand that had managed to find it’s way into some very inconvenient places. However once that problem was dealt with they had the rather more fun problem of both being naked and slippery so their quick shower soon became a very long and loud shower with a very happy ending.

After such an eventful morning John insisted on making breakfast before they tackled their latest mystery, which Sherlock reluctantly agreed to.

Once they were eventually fed and dressed they sat down for another attempt at their new puzzle.

“So, Monopoly. Does that mean anything special to you?” John asked.

“No, except that Mycroft loved showing his megalomanical tendencies even as a child and would cheat mercilessly to win.”

John chuckled at the petulant expression this memory had prompted. “OK. Me neither, no special memories or anything. Maybe we should check the games cupboard, I’m sure a saw Monopoly in there. The rest of the clue could be in the box.”

They soon found a rather battered looking copy of the game in the back of the cupboard.

“This looks like the one that we played as children.” Sherlock turned the box over and found a note scrawled in a childish hand on the bottom which read ‘Mycroft is a fat cheater!’

John giggled and in the face of this cuteness had to hug Sherlock for a minute before he could do anything else.

When he was released Sherlock emptied the box out onto the table and sifted through the contents. After half an hour nothing unusual had been discovered other than that young Sherlock had a penchant for graffiti and had altered several of the cards, mostly to insult his brother.

John came across the ‘It’s your birthday, collect £10 from each player’ card, upon which Sherlock had changed 'your' to ‘Mycroft’s’ and ‘£10’ to ‘cake'. He smiled and showed it to Sherlock, “This one is nice, giving him cake on his birthday.”

Sherlock giggled, “No, he hated it. He always hated me pointing out his indecent obsession with cake. Still does, maybe I’ll send him a huge one when we get out of here to ‘thank' him for the experience.”

John grinned and replaced the card in the box, then sat back in his seat with a sigh, “I don’t think it’s here.”

Sherlock huffed and dropped the Monopoly money he was examining onto the table, “You’re right, this isn’t getting us anywhere. Do you fancy a game though?”

John narrowed his eyes in determination, “You’re on, but no cheating, and I’m the Top Hat.”

Xxxxx

Several hours later John had to admit defeat, he’d been limping through the game for a while living on bank loans and the meager earnings from his few properties, but hunger prompted him to put himself out of his misery.

“Fine, you win. You tidy up and I’ll get some lunch?”

Sherlock’s eyes sparkled in triumph, but he managed to stop himself from gloating as he packed everything away into the box. His mind turned back to the mystery of the 'Advance to Go' card as he did so, and suddenly something clicked and he realised the solution.

“John! John! I know what it means.” he followed John into the kitchen and continued, “We were thinking of it as telling us to look at the Monopoly game, but it's the actual card that’s important. ‘Advance to Go'.”

John set the butter knife in his hand down onto the counter and sat on one of the kitchen chairs. “I don’t get it. Where are we meant to advance to?”

“Go. Or in our case return to Go. The start point of the game. If this island is a game we need to return to the start..”

John interrupted, “Our original rooms, Where we first woke up.”

Sherlock excitedly came over and hugged him, “Exactly, come on, lets go.” He tried to drag John out of the kitchen but he resisted.

“No, we need to eat. Lunch first, then we can go.”

Sherlock frowned at him but his stomach betrayed him by rumbling loudly and they both looked down at it and laughed.

“You’ve got me far too used to eating regularly. Fine, we’ll have lunch first.” Sherlock said in mock annoyance.

John smiled, stood up and kissed him until the frown melted away, then a little longer….just in case.

XXxX

After the quickest lunch Sherlock could get away with they set off for the trip back to their original set of rooms.

Aside from a couple of trips to collect all of their belongings they hadn’t been back since they found this side of the compound, which was more like a home rather than the original prison type cells they were confined to.

The return trip was much easier than the first time they made their way through the maze like warehouse in the dark. As it turned out the light switch for the massive space was located in their new living quarters, so it was a simple matter to walk between the storage units of food without having to hold hands to prevent losing each other. Of course the fact that they didn’t need to hold hands didn’t stop them from doing exactly that.

They made their way through the doors with their twin eye scanners, back to the original corridor where they first met. John had a little nostalgic moment and squeezed Sherlock’s hand, looking up he could have sworn he saw a tear glittering in Sherlock’s eye, but decided not to mention it.

John asked, “Where now? We both started in different rooms.”

“Hmm, I don’t know, let’s each check our own rooms.”

They used the eye scanners on their respective doors and John went into the room where this whole thing started.

Everything looked exactly as he remembered. A plain room with a simple bed and not much else, he was just about to start a closer examination when Sherlock hammered on his door and called through it, “Come and see what I found!”

Taking a brief glance around the room and still seeing nothing out of place John opened his door and found himself being dragged across the hallway into Sherlock’s room.

The room was almost a perfect mirror for his own. Almost that is apart from a panel on the far wall that had slid back to reveal another pair of the familiar eye scanners.

“That wasn’t like that before?”

Sherlock scoffed, “No, of course not. I would have told you about it when we were here if it was.”

“Yeah, ok. Was it just like this when you came in?”

“Yes. Come on,” Sherlock said bouncing on the balls of his feet, “I need your eyeballs.”

John went over to the scanner but hesitated, “How did it move then, if we’re the only ones here?”

Sherlock huffed, but examined the panel, finding that it had slid back into the wall and now couldn’t be pulled back out again. “Looks like it’s motorised. Either someone triggered it remotely when they saw us solve the clue, or it was automatic, maybe programmed to open when we put the correct solution into the combination lock and found the medical documents.”

John felt a little better, the thought of someone sneaking around what he had come to think of as their home had been a bit disturbing. He leant forwards and placed his eye against the scanner while Sherlock did the same on the other side.

As soon as the scan was completed a smaller section of the wall between the scanners slid open to reveal a compartment with a large roll of paper inside. Sherlock pulled it out and unrolled it on the floor, it took up most of the space in the small room.

It took John a second to realise what he was looking at, “Blueprints? It looks like the floor plan for this building. What are we supposed to do with this?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We welcome your kind comments and kudos. 😊❤️😊


	22. Chapter 22, by DaisyFairy

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, examining the blueprints. He knelt on the floor to look closer and after a few seconds John joined him.

They poured over the diagram together for quarter of an hour until John got bored. As far as he could see everything on the paper matched the compound that they had been living in together for the last few weeks, with no obvious clues or “X marks the spot”s to pursue.

As his attention wandered he found it slipping more and more towards the vision of Sherlock on his hands and knees, or increasingly elbows and knees with his perfect, round, gorgeous arse bobbing around in a very enticing fashion.

He climbed up off of the floor and sat on the bunk to watch Sherlock work. His focus, single-minded determination to wring every detail out of the clue they had been given was admirable, the cute way his brow furrowed as he looked closer was gorgeous and yet, and yet….there was that arse again, tight and firm and oh so touchable.

Johns hands seemed to have a mind of their own as they reached out. He made contact and Sherlock gave a full body shudder, but still continued to trace his fingertips over the outlines of the building on the plans.

John gave those globes a gentle squeeze and then abandoned his prize to run his hands up Sherlock’s back. Kneeling behind him he draped himself over Sherlock’s back and brought his arms around to hug him. He kissed up Sherlock’s spine through his shirt, then his shoulder blades and then the bare skin of his neck eliciting another shudder from the man beneath him.

Moving forward to reach Sherlock’s jaw made his rapidly hardening cock press up against Sherlock’s thigh and he gasped, then whispered into Sherlock’s ear, “I need you. Right now!”

“I’m working.” Sherlock replied breathlessly.

“Mhmm, is that so?” John ran one hand down Sherlock’s chest, and lower, lower, until he could fondle what turned out to be a very hard and substantial bulge in Sherlock’s trousers.

“Uh, you, oh Joooohn.” Sherlock rumbled as the fondling became more of a rub, up and down. Sherlock’s arms shook under the weight of both men, and threatened to tip him face first onto the floor.

“Bed! Now!” John growled, yanking Sherlock back against him.

A quick scrabble onto the narrow cot, some undignified wriggling to free themselves of unnecessary clothing, and a grateful sigh of relief when Sherlock produced a small bottle of lube that he had stashed in his trouser pocket after the unfortunate lack of lubrication on their recent al fresco adventure.

Then there were slick tongues sliding together, and then, then, Sherlock back on his hands and knees and that gorgeous arse, only this time completely bare, round and pale and biteable? Was it biteable? John tested his theory and discovered it to be absolutely delicious, as were the noises Sherlock made in response. A brief taste at Sherlock’s centre and John couldn’t wait any longer.

He slicked himself and carefully pushed inside, forcing himself against all instincts to stay slow. Once fully seated he was going to wait, to allow Sherlock time to adjust, but Sherlock was pushing back, trying to get more, and moaning desperately, pleading under his breath “More! Now! Please! Pleeeease!”

Well, who was John Watson to deny him?

After that everything was a bit of a blur.

They moved together frantically, Sherlock desperate for more, and John desperate to give it to him.

It was hard, and fast, and the metal cot gave some alarming creaks as it was tested far beyond its design limits. Then, as suddenly as they began, it was over and they both came hard enough to see stars.

In the aftermath they collapsed together onto the soiled sheets and just let their brains reset before they tried anything complicated like speech or movement.

Eventually Sherlock broke the silence with a groan, “Urgh! Let me up, I’m in the wet patch.”

John, who was laying mostly on top of him, simply burrowed further into the back of Sherlock’s neck and grumbled, “John Watson isn’t in right now, please try again later.”

Sherlock sighed and gave in, letting himself go limp and very quickly falling asleep.

XXxX

Over the course of the following week Sherlock and John went over the blueprints so many times that John started dreaming about them. Dreams in blue and white, with rulers and measuring tapes dancing around him.

Still, despite measuring every room, right down to the electrical outlets, everything in the compound matched the blueprints precisely. There were no secret compartments marked on the diagram that they hadn’t already found, and nothing to indicate what they where supposed to do with this information.

John lost enthusiasm for the new clue after only a few days, but continued to follow Sherlock around, holding the end of the tape measure and carrying the increasingly dog-eared blueprints from room to room.

By the seventh day everything had been measured, and Sherlock’s attention was drifting back to his cold cases. They pinned the chart to the wall and decided to leave it up in case inspiration struck.

During the next seven days Sherlock solved two cases, writing the names of the perpetrators down carefully and filing them away until such time as they could be passed on to the police.

John spent his days reading, cooking and tempting Sherlock away from his work for a board game or a more adult game with some of the “toys” in their bedroom. He truly couldn’t imagine being happier.

On the fifteenth day after the discovery of the blueprints John asked Sherlock to open the outside door with him so that he could go for a walk while Sherlock carried out an experiment in his lab. He put a chair in the entrance to keep the door open so that he could get back in without Sherlock and set off.

As he walked John stopped frequently to gather wildflowers. The whole point of this excursion was to collect flowers so that he could scatter them across their bed to surprise Sherlock that evening.  
As he was walking John found himself happily surveilling the landscape, their landscape, the island that had become their entire world.

Suddenly something struck him, something was wrong, and John realised the error that they had made with the blueprints. They had been meticulous with the interior of the building, but hadn’t even thought to check the exterior. The outline of the building didn’t match the schematics that were burned into his brain.

Dropping his flowers John moved closer and found a rectangular protuberance about the size of a large walk in cupboard extending from the side of the building. This section did not correspond to any part of the building on the inside, or anything on the blueprints.  
He felt the wall with his fingertips and found a small panel that slid across to reveal two iris scanners and on close examination realised that there was a concealed door in the wall.

As soon as he understood what he had found John ran back at a sprint to get Sherlock so that they could open the new door.

Xxx

It took a few minutes for Sherlock to leave his experiment in a safe way so that nothing would explode or catch fire, but once that was done he followed eagerly, muttering to himself about how stupid he had been to not check the outside of the building.

They presented their eyes to the scanners, and just as with all of the others the door sprung open instantly. Inside there was a small room with fluorescent lights set into the ceiling that came on when the door opened. The only thing in the room was the top of a spiral staircase that led down into the dark.

Sherlock beamed and gave John a quick kiss, “You solved it! Well done.” He indicated the stairs, “Shall we?”

John took one more look around the empty room, checking for any further instructions, and shrugged. “I suppose that's what we’re meant to do.”

He reached for Sherlock's hand and held tight as they approached the dark hole in the floor. They carefully started down the stairs, and found that motion sensors made lights come on as they descended into the bedrock, the walls became rough hewn and damp as they went lower. Any sense of claustrophobia was dispelled by the increasingly strong scent of the sea, and the strong breeze that was rushing past them up the staircase.

At the bottom they found themselves in a rough tunnel, just high enough for Sherlock to stand, with a sandy floor and wires running along the side to connect light outlets on the walls. They followed the tunnel and soon came to the opening set about a meter up in the cliff face above a small cove. The small sandy shore was dotted with shells and driftwood and was being licked by waves. A line of seaweed showed that at high tide the entire beach would be covered.

There was a bright red box bolted to the wall near the entrance of the tunnel. The size of a large briefcase, it appeared to be waterproof with a large plastic latch.

Sherlock eagerly moved to open the box, but John held him back, “No, wait. Can we go to the beach before we open that?”

Sherlock's lips twitched in amusement, “If we must.” He said, feigning nonchalance, but he seemed just as eager as John when they scrambled down the cliff face to the sandy beach below.

They stood hand in hand and looked out on the horizon that they hadn’t seen for so long, the sky meeting the sea in a huge arc. It felt good to feel the sea spray hit their faces. John trailed his fingers into the water, “Cold. Very cold. I don’t think we’d get far swimming for it.”

Sherlock gestured to the empty sea, “There doesn’t appear to be anywhere to swim to in any case. Shall we open our next clue now?”

John picked up a sea shell and rubbed his fingers over the edges that had been softened by months in the water. “Yeah, come on then.”

They climbed back up to the tunnel, Sherlock entered first and got up easily, then reached back to help pull John up.

“We can’t have you getting stuck all the way down there, can we?” Sherlock teased.

“Hey, I’m not that short!” John grumbled playfully.

Sherlock giggled and unfastened the latch, then opened the box. Inside he discovered a flare gun inside along with a manila envelope much like the one they found in their bedroom.

He lifted out the gun and found it to be already loaded. He peered curiously down the barrel, causing to John to very firmly take it away from him.

“You don’t look down the barrel of a loaded gun!” he hissed angrily.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “I wasn’t going to pull the trigger.”

John just gaped at him for a moment, then decided it wasn’t worth arguing. “Fine, but I’m the soldier. I’ll deal with any firearms from now on. Ok?”

Sherlock sighed, “If you must.” Then continued, “I think we’ve reached the end of our puzzle, that gun must be to call for rescue, but before we do that….” he picked up the envelope. “What do you think could be in here?”

John carefully put the gun back into the box and closed the latch, “I’ve no idea. I can’t think of any more secrets that could be revealed.”

“Well, let’s see shall we?” Sherlock opened the envelope and pulled out a couple of pieces of paper. They quickly read the document and discovered it to be a lease agreement for a flat in London, 221b Baker Street, landlady Mrs Hudson. Sherlock smiled fondly at the name.

“Do you know her?” John asked.

“Oh yes, I helped her a few years ago in Florida, her husband was on death row.”

John jumped in, “And you prevented his execution of course.”

Sherlock gave him a wide grin, “Oh no, I ensured it.”

John took a second to process, then snorted around his own grin and shook his head fondly.

Sherlock turned his attention back to the lease, “It's a good location, the apartments there are generally very nice.”

“I see that both of our names are on the lease.” John said leaning in to check the details.

“Is that.. is that a problem?” Sherlock bit his lip nervously.

“No. No, no, no. It's perfect. As long as you don't mind.” John replied shifting awkwardly from foot to foot.

Sherlock’s eyes widened, “John Watson. Now that I have found you, as long as you will have me, I never intend to let you go.”

John pulled Sherlock down and kissed him tenderly. After a short eternity Sherlock pulled back a few millimetres and murmured, "So. What do you think? Shall we fire the flare?"

John shrugged and smiled, “I had a meal planned for tonight that was going to blow your socks off.”

“My socks?” Sherlock asked raising a mildly confused eyebrow.

John smirked, “Well, I thought we'd start with socks then see what else I can get off.”

“So, tomorrow then.”

“Hmm, we still haven't finished our Bond Movie marathon.”

Sherlock was quick to agree, “Yes, that's very important.” Possibly thinking more of the snuggling on the sofa that watching the films involved than of the actual movies.

They slowly walked hand in hand back up the stairs.

“You've still not finished all those cold cases yet either.”

“No, some of them are being particularly difficult, could take some time.”

“I'm sure we've got enough food left for at least a month.”

“I'd say two,” said Sherlock, “maybe more if we can catch some fish.”

They shared another gentle kiss at the top of the stairs.

“Hmm, I don't think we're in any rush. First one back gets a blow job before dinner?” John said.

Sherlock considered then quickly nodded and shoved John to the ground before running back to the main door followed by John giggling and racing to catch up.

…

_That’s what could have happened. Or perhaps…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We welcome your kind comments and kudos. 😊❤️😊


	23. Sense of Control, by alexxphoenix42

John held the manila envelope up for inspection, flipping it over to view both sides. There were no identifying marks that he could see. It felt light in his fingers, just the ordinary sort of thing you might use to send an inter-office memo. He shrugged.

“You could open it,” Sherlock suggested, sinking to the bed beside him.

“Yeah, right-o. Hope there’s no anthrax or anything in here.” John shook the envelope warily, producing only a slight rustling of paper.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but remained quiet as John slipped a finger under the flap and pried it open. He turned the envelope over to dump out a stapled-together packet of papers that fluttered to the floor. When nothing else seemed to be forthcoming, John bent over to retrieve it.

“The Tale of Sir Boast A Lot and the Naughty Little Hobbit," John read the title on the front page somewhat incredulously. “What in the world?”

Sherlock groaned and collapsed back across the bed. “Oh, God.”

John quickly flipped to the next page. “Once upon a time there lived a young prince who was known as Sir Boast A Lot. . .” John’s eyebrows traveled up somewhere near his hairline as he scanned through the text. “Your brother wrote this?”

“Oh I doubt he actually wrote it, but I’m sure he dictated the shape of it.”

“But what does this mean?” 

“It means my brother is a complete arsehole.” Sherlock sighed. “It’s also probably a clue, and something we’ll need to actually read.”

John burst out laughing. “It looks like a bedtime story, a fairy tale.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Sherlock shrugged.

“You never had bedtime stories when you were little?” John rounded on him.

“My parents read to me when I was pre-literate, but I tended to enjoy scientific journals, or history books. Fiction didn’t interest me much.”

“Ah, well budge over. You’re about to have your first fairy tale read to you.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow but acquiesced to John’s direction that they lie back, getting comfortable against the headboard as he prepared to read.

“Okay,” John cleared his throat, holding the page upright, “Once upon a time there lived a young prince known as Sir Boast A Lot. It wasn’t his real name, but he was such an insufferable know-it-all, bothering everyone about the castle, that someone called him the nick-name and it stuck. Soon no one even remembered what the prince was actually called. Despite the name, the prince continued sticking his nose in where it didn’t belong. One day a woman, a distant relation, came to visit the castle. Unbeknownst to the prince, the woman was a powerful sorceress. When the prince insulted her that night at dinner, revealing private facts about herself for all and sundry to hear, the woman was enraged.”

Sherlock shuffled uncomfortably next to John on the duvet. John butted his foot gently against Sherlock’s ankle before continuing.

“Magic swirled around her as she pointed a long, bony finger at the know-it-all. ‘I curse you to wear the pain on your skin that you have caused others. May you bear the shape of a monster until you can know true compassion.’

The prince felt a horrible writhing begin over his entire body. He ran as fast as he could from the dining hall into the night trying to escape the spell, but the magic had wrapped its tendrils around him. As he ran, he felt himself twisting and growing until he had turned into an enormous dragon. There was no way he could return to the castle having grown to almost half the size of it. Reluctantly, Sir Boast A Lot left his home, raising his wings to the breeze to find somewhere more dragony to roost.

The prince flew for several days, encountering angry villagers who shot flaming arrows at him whenever he drew too close to a settlement. At last, exhausted and sore, he found a dragon’s lair in the mountains that seemed to have been abandoned, a perfect place to curl up and lick his wounds. To his wonder, the prince discovered that as a dragon, he had a magic of his own. For protection, he willed a large stone to block the entrance to the underground citadel, securing it with a spell. Only he or someone who knew how to crack the code written over the entrance could summon the magic to open the door.”

John paused to glance over at Sherlock. “You still with me?” Sherlock had closed his eyes, and raised pressed palms to his chin looking like some effigy on a sarcophagus. He cracked one eye, rumbling something in the affirmative, so John continued.

“Meanwhile on the other side of the kingdom, there lived a small hobbit who was not quite the same as the other hobbits. You see this hobbit had left the shire and gone to battle some years ago, and it had left scars on his body, but even deeper scars on his soul that no one could see. It made a divide between himself and his kinfolk so that even when he returned home . . .”

John felt his throat growing inexplicably tight. He tried clearing it several times before restarting.

“Here,” Sherlock said softly, sitting up. “Let me.” He reached for the pages in John’s grip.

“Yeah, alright.” John let him take them.

“ . . . so that even when he returned home,” Sherlock read in his rich, plumy voice “he found himself restless, and unable to enjoy the things that he had loved before. When a band of dwarves came to the shire looking for someone join their quest, the Little Hobbit was the first to volunteer. The dwarves told him they sought an enchanted jewel, one that resided in a citadel beneath the ground in their ancestral home, a place guarded by a fierce dragon. Armed with only his wits and a small sword, the Hobbit traveled with the dwarves for many days and nights through inhospitable landscapes and unspeakable dangers to reach the dragon’s lair.

When at last they reached the entrance to the underground citadel, weary from travel, they were dismayed to see the large stone blocking the way. The dwarves noticed the markings etched into the rock wall above the entrance, but try as they might, none of them could decipher the strange language and speak the words to open the way. The Little Hobbit who was even more foot-sore and tired than the dwarves, pushed his way through to see the inscription himself. As luck would have it, the words were written in Ancient Hobbitish, an older version of the dialect spoken around the shire, and the Little Hobbit had no trouble at all making sense of the words. Heat rose over his face, and he bit his tongue lest he say anything that gave his knowledge away.

“Here, now, what’s all this gibberish?” one of the Dwarves grumbled.

“It’s not words that I’ve ever seen before,” another declared, scratching his bushy beard.

They tried to simply push the rock aside with their combined strength, but the boulder had been set by magic and would not be moved by any other force. A great melancholy descended over the group at their failure. The dwarves were nearly ready to concede that their journey had been in vain when the little Hobbit felt compelled to speak.

“I can read the words.” tumbled from his mouth in a great rush.

“What?” the dwarves exclaimed rounding on the Little Hobbit. “You’ve known all this time and said nothing?”

“Well, it’s just that it’s a bit rude.” The Little Hobbit shuffled his furry feet against the ground hoping to stave off the inevitable. “I’d rather not say it aloud.”

The dwarves, being dwarves, were of course use to rough living and rougher language, and fairly desperate to reclaim their jewel in the mountain. They assured their hobbit friend that nothing he could read aloud would affect them in the slightest.

The Little Hobbit pulled up his courage by the boot straps, stood tall and read in a quavering voice “I am a very, naughty little hobbit, and I need to be spanked.”

“Oh, no.” John reached back for the pages, pulling them from Sherlock’s grip. “It doesn’t really say that.”

“I assure you, it does. Why don’t you read the next bit?”

John furrowed his brow scanning the text until he found the line that Sherlock had just read. Sure enough he’d been correct. “Soooo, naughy hobbit, needs to be spanked . . .

Going against their word, their dwarves broke out into gales of laughter at the Little Hobbit who had blushed clean up to his pointed ears. Chortling and giggling, the dwarves clutched their round bellies with mirth until the grating sound of the large stone moving stopped them. When the boulder had moved back just enough to allow a very small person to slip through - Oi, do they have to keep going on about how small he is? - the dwarves patted the hobbit on the back and wished him luck on this quest to find the hidden gem.

The Little Hobbit felt his courage had quite deserted him. He forged ahead down the long, dark tunnel bolstered only by the dwarves’ assurances that surely he was too small to be noticed by the dragon. Sadly, though, they had neglected to think of the dragon’s advanced sense of smell.

The creature, who had once been Sir Boast A Lot, dozed on a pile of treasure that another dragon had gathered before his arrival, dreaming of plump, lazy sheep. He’d not been hunting for several days, and it seemed his stomach would soon need to be appeased. Something in the air alerted him though, and he twitched awake, rousing to sniff a new presence in his stronghold. Carefully, he moved back into the shadows, sinking beneath a pile of coins to hide and plot as the intruder made his way into the great hall.

The Little Hobbit had only a cursory idea of what the dwarves’ magic jewel looked like, but he’d been told he’d know it when he saw it. His eyes grew round at the mounds of treasure heaped on the floor before him. Just as he thought he’d spied something twinkling and made to move closer, the coins shifted under his feet, and the mighty dragon’s head burst forth.”

“Okay, you need to read the next part.” John thrust the pages back at Sherlock.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, but dutifully found his place in the story and started again.

“ ‘Who is there, who dares disturb my rest?’ the dragon roared.

The Little Hobbit who had found a treasure chest to hide behind quaked all the way to his furry toes hoping he wouldn’t be found out.

‘Come out’ the dragon insisted. ‘I can smeeeelllll you.’

Deciding he had no chance of escape, the Little Hobbit bravely stood to accept his fate. Instantly the dragon dove out and pounced, caging him between outstretched talons that pinned him to the ground.

‘So, how did you get in my lair, little thief? I had spells on the door.’

‘Please, sir,’ the Little Hobbit’s teeth were chattering so hard he could barely speak. ‘I meant no harm’ he lied. “The words over the door were written in Hobbitish. It wasn’t hard to read them.’

‘But there are no hobbits for miles and miles from here. Few people have even seen a hobbit, they never leave their shire. I felt certain no one would be able to read . . .’

The dragon broke off to bend his neck down, bringing his face closer to his little prey, and he breathed his scent in deeply. The little creature who writhed so appealingly in his talons smelled of brisk mountain winds, something sweet like honey, and a deep earthiness like good fresh soil turned over in the springtime. After being drenched in the smells of cold stone halls, and sharp metallic treasure, the dragon welcome the scent of simpler, softer things.

‘You must be a hobbit.’ The dragon concluded with some surprise. “I’ve never actually seen one before.”

‘But you wrote your password for hobbits to read,’ the Little Hobbit managed to squeak.

‘It was a joke. I got it from a book.’ The dragon shrugged, peering closer at the small thing in his mercy. He snaked out his long forked tongue and licked over the creature’s face. He tasted like sweet yeast rolls, something the dragon hadn’t had in years.

‘Please, sir if you’re going to eat me, do it and make it fast.’ The Little Hobbit screwed his eyes shut tight, bracing himself.

“Eat you? I wouldn’t dream of it,’ the dragon snorted. ‘You’re the most interesting thing to happen here in months.’

Though the hobbit wriggled and protested, the dragon used the tip of a talon to carefully strip away the creature’s clothes, holding him down to better examine him. The dragon ran his warm rough tongue delicately over the hobbit’s body into every crack and crevice noticing that after a few minutes, the creature was no longer trying to wiggle out of his grasp, but was spreading his legs to grant him better access.”

“OH MY GOD.” John sat up. “It’s porn, kinky inter-species porn.” He flapped a hand toward the pages in Sherlock’s hand. “What kind of sick fuck is your brother?”

“I never took you for a prude, John.”

“I’m not, it’s just . . .” John trailed off. He absolutely didn’t want to explain that the story had already made him half-hard in his jeans. “It’s weird . . . alright?” John crossed his arms tightly over his chest

“So what if it’s weird? It might be a clue of some sort. Do you mind if I continue?”

“No, fine, fine. Finish the damn thing.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock found his place again.

“The dragon brought the Little Hobbit to his climax easily, then tucked him up against his body to stay warm as he dozed afterwards. When the wee thing awoke, the dragon flipped him on his front, and repeated the process, licking into the hobbit until he was drowning in ecstasy. Later, when the intruder seemed to have fallen asleep for the night, the dragon found costly fur capes from a chest to drape around him. When his hobbit seemed well settled, the dragon slipped through a hidden crevice in the top of the mountain, and flew off to hunt.

The next morning, the Little Hobbit stretched and rolled awake to find an entire cart of produce and a freshly-roasted lamb awaiting his pleasure for breakfast.

‘Do you want some?’ he asked the dragon politely before he tore into the feast before him.

‘No I ate already. I prefer my food on the hoof, as it were,” the dragon said breezily, “but please, help yourself.’

The Little Hobbit tucked into his meal with gusto, and the dragon felt an unexpected pleasure course over him at watching the little one so enjoying his food. They talked as he ate of inconsequential things, the dragon asking after the hobbit’s journey, and his life back in the shire. When at last he was done, the dragon pressed the hobbit again why he had really come to his lair. With a blush, the Little Hobbit admitted to being on a mission to find the dwarves’ missing gem.

‘What this one, the glowing rock?’ the dragon asked, easily picking it out of the hoard of treasure with his claws.

‘Why yes, I think so.’

‘Oh, they can have it. I don’t care about it.’ The dragon shrugged. ‘To be honest I don’t care about any of it, it was here when I arrived.’

The Little Hobbit was excited to take the gem and leave, but the dragon shook his head. ‘I think not little thief. I’ve grown to enjoy your company. You aren’t leaving.’

‘But my friends—they’re waiting outside for me.’

‘Well, they can have the jewel, but they can’t have you. You’re mine now.’ The dragon flew to the entrance where the great stone blocked the entryway. With a few muttered words, the boulder creaked and rolled to the side. The band of dwarves camped outside were greatly surprised when an enormous dragon poked out to chuck their beloved gemstone at their feet.

‘There you’ve got what you came for. CLEAR OFF!’ he bellowed, punctuating his roar with a blast of flame. The dwarves offered no dissent. They quickly grabbed their things and ran, obviously chalking up the Little Hobbit as dead, and were heard of no more.

After that a sort of agreement seemed to have sprung up between the dragon and the hobbit. The Little Hobbit didn’t try to escape, and in exchange, the dragon brought him anything he desired to keep him well. Each morning, he presented the hobbit with new food that he had foraged, and each evening, he brought him to writhing orgasm in new and varied ways. One night he used the flat of his tongue to spank the hobbit quite soundly before wrapping his tongue around his cock to bring him off. The hobbit sobbed his thanks.

Many of the boxes heaped about the hall yielded practical things like plates and cups (though plated with gold,) and enough clothes that the Little Hobbit was never cold. The hobbit found that the dragon liked to have the scales scratched under his chin and along his back, and he would climb over him to perform this service, getting to places the dragon couldn’t easily reach himself.

‘You’re like a great house cat.’ The Little Hobbit smiled, scratching him behind an ear flap. The dragon rumbled out something like a deep purr in reply, and the Hobbit laughed in delight.

Eventually the day came when the dragon looked at the Little Hobbit and noticed that he was growing pale and wan living underground. He realized that a creature of green, and sun should not live this way. Though it pained him, he made his decision.

‘Hobbit, I want you to know that you are free to go. You may carry anything you’d like of the treasure, and return to your shire.’

The Little Hobbit’s mouth dropped open in surprised. ‘Are you not pleased with my company any longer, O Dragon?’

‘Your company is worth more to me than any costly item in this accursed lair, but I will not have you stay and live your life in the dark like this. You must go and be where you belong.’

‘But what of you?’ the hobbit protested. ‘You could come with me.’

‘I am a monster,’ the dragon sighed. ‘I must live outside the settlements of civilized creatures banished to the shadows where I belong.’

‘I won’t go.’ The Little Hobbit shook his head and stood up, bringing himself to his tallest height, which next to a dragon was hardly anything at all. ‘I won’t leave you. Don’t you know, where you are is my home now.’ He flung himself against the dragon’s side and held on. In that instant, a shimmer of pure magic rippled over them, and he found himself embracing not a great beast, but a tall thin man with eyes like summer rain.

The prince introduced himself and explained that he had been under a curse which they had just broken. When the hobbit had gotten over his shock, they found clothes and boots for the prince, and sacks to hold as many gems as they could carry. Side by side, they left the citadel to find what adventures they might in the wide world together.”

“God, I didn’t want to like it, and then it went all sweet.” John sighed. “Is that all of it?”

Sherlock flipped to the last page to reveal an illustration of the dwarves and the hobbit peering at the marks over the dragon’s sealed door.

“There. What do you make of all this? Sherlock passed it to John.

“Well, it doesn’t follow the plot of the Hobbit exactly. In the real story the dwarves are trying to retake the Mountain stronghold.”

“Plot, the plot of what?” Sherlock crinkled the bridge of his nose in confusion.

“The Hobbit? A famous children’s story? My mum used to read it to me when I was little. Don’t tell me you’ve deleted that.”

“Fine, I won’t tell you.” Sherlock shrugged. “But what do you make of it. What’s the clue?”

“Well, they were looking for a jewel. Is there anything in the place that might be like a large glowing rock? Or anything buried?”

“We need more data.” Sherlock shook his head. “Do we have this book here?”

“Oh, right, yeah, I think I saw it on the bookshelf.”

“Ah, then our quest begins in the games room.”

They assumed their positions against the door to activate the lock. It had become something of a usual routine, standing chest to chest, fingers set to the scanners on the wall to get in and out of the bedroom. At one point, they’d tried wedging it open, but an alarm had sounded that only grew more shrill until they’d allowed the door to slide shut. They’d agreed that it wasn’t that much of a hardship to spend a few minutes in an embrace each day to satisfy the building’s mad requirements.

“So you liked the part about the dragon holding down the . . . erm . . . hobbit, then?” Sherlock asked by John’s ear.

“What?” John frowned.

“Don’t be coy, John. You found it arousing. Was it the fantasy nature of the scenario or the dominance and submission?

“Jesus, I don’t have a thing for dragons.” John could feel his face heating. He ducked it as well as he could in the space between the door and Sherlock, and ended up sticking his nose in Sherlock’s armpit. He smelled comforting. “Yeah, alright, I had a girlfriend in uni who liked to play a bit with tying me up.” His words came muffled against Sherlock’s side.

“You liked it.” Sherlock dropped his voice even lower. John felt his cock give a hopeful twitch. It was almost a Pavlovian response at this point.

“Yeah, alright, I enjoyed it. We broke up after a few months, and I never had another partner interested in that.”

“Hmmmm.”

The door slid open behind them, and they moved on to the games room, eager to find the book. John slid the paperback copy off the shelf. It wasn’t the cover he remembered as a child, but it was the same old story. He gave it a cursory shake to see if anything was lodged inside the pages, but nothing shook loose.

“Damn. Well worth a try.”

“Are there any other books related to this one?” Sherlock squinted at the bookcase.

“Well, yeah there’s a whole series, The Lord of the Rings?”

“Can you remember the titles?”

“Hang on a minute. Yeah . . .” John looked up, searching his memory. “There’s The Fellowship of the Ring, The Two Towers, and The Return of the King.” He ticked them off on his fingers.

John helped Sherlock sift through their modest collection of books before concluding that The Hobbit was the only Tolkien book with them on the island.

“Perhaps the clue is something to do with the titles and we don’t need the actual books.” Sherlock furrowed his brow. “Rings? Kings? Towers?”

“That sounds like chess, well except for the ring bit,” John offered.

“Possibly. Let’s check the chess set.”

They spent some time going over all of the chess pieces and the board looking for hidden compartments, secret clues, markings, but after an hour, they decided it was nothing more than an ordinary chess game.

Sherlock wanted to sit and puzzle over things longer, but John made him relocate to the kitchen for something to eat.

“Come on, we’ll both think better on a full stomach.”

“You’ll think better. Digestion slows me down,” Sherlock clipped.

“Alright, Spock.” The side of John’s mouth tipped up, but he let Sherlock think in peace at the kitchen table until the meal was ready.

Sherlock looked at the bowl of pasta and lumpy sauce set in front of him, sniffing it disapprovingly.

“Don’t we have any more of that curry thing?”

“Sorry, that’s long gone,” John said. “You’re going to have branch out a bit, try some new things.”

“I hate trying new things,” Sherlock sneered.

“We need to make do with what we have, alright?” John snapped. “I’m not sure how long our supplies are meant to last.”

“Oh, of course.” Sherlock’s face fell. He picked up his fork and tried a bite contritely.

“Look, I’m sorry.” John blew out a breath. “I don’t mean to be a dick.”

“No, it’s fine. This situation would wear on anyone.” Sherlock reached out and placed a hand over John’s free one by his plate.

“It’s not your fault,” John said turning it over to thread their fingers together. “I just worry a bit. If we don’t manage to get the fence turned off and get out, we could run out of food. I don’t know if anyone’s actually monitoring things out here. I’d hate for us to be reduced to eating grass from outside.”

“Hmmm, that’s an interesting idea. If we needed to forage, I wonder what the island might provide.”

“I didn’t see much on our rambles, but who knows.” John let go of Sherlock to scoop up a bite of his food.

“Thankfully we’ve got things in the freezer still.”

“Yeah, but I am NOT eating stewed corpse.”

Sherlock looked horrified. “Well, of course not. We don’t know if they died from something communicable.”

John snorted a laugh, and they continued eating more companionably.

“Hmm. It’s not half bad,” Sherlock said, working through his plate with small, careful bites.

John grunted in reply, watching as Sherlock picked out any onions, setting them to the side, but declined to comment further.

He licked his lisp when Sherlock wiped his mouth and fingers fastidiously on his napkin. Posh boy.

“Why don’t we just read The Hobbit?” John suggested as the thought came to him. “Maybe the clue is in the story.”

“Why not?” Sherlock shrugged. “It’s not like my agenda is terribly packed at the moment.”

After they had finished eating, and Sherlock had insisted on doing the washing up, they returned to the games room. Getting comfortable on the sofa, they took turns reading the story aloud to each other.

John delighted at all the voices that Sherlock put on for the various characters. “You know you’re right good at that. Might want to consider a career on the stage if we ever get off this island.”

“Boring.” Sherlock waved it aside.

“Still, you’d be brilliant.”

“Well, acting DOES come in handy occasionally in detective work. It helps to have a variety of skills.”

“Yeah, I suppose so.”

They read until their voices were sore, and John yawned wide enough to crack his jaw.

“Bed?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “We can always pick this back up again tomorrow.”

“I think so. I’m knackered.” John stretched his arms over his head, and Sherlock’s eyes followed the line of his shirt pulled taught over his chest.

They cradled each other in bed that night, weaving their limbs together, somehow not content to drift off to sleep unless they were touching as much of each other as possible.

***

In the morning, Sherlock surprised John by fashioning some eggy bread for breakfast out of a packet of rolls from the freezer, and some powdered egg and milk mixed together. He served it up with a small jar of berry jam.

“Shame we don’t have any syrup,” John said, tucking in, “but this is fantastic, thanks.”

“Yes, well, as you said, making do.”

They resumed their reading of The Hobbit after eating, John taking the lion’s share that day. When they got to the part with Smaug, the dragon, Sherlock snorted.

“I thought the dragon in our story was much nicer.”

“Well, yes, Smaug is the villain here. In that other story, the dragon was the princess locked in the tower, the damsel in distress.”

“I am not a damsel in distress.” Sherlock sat up taller. “Anyway it was a ridiculous bit of fluff. My brother has a warped sense of humor.”

“Yeah, I don’t much fancy being a hobbit.” John shook his head.

“I don’t know.” Sherlock tilted his head, his eyes twinkling. “You’ve got the height for it.”

“Oi, fuck you, you poncy git. I’m not that short. Just because I don’t have legs that go on for days . . .”

“You like my legs?” Sherlock leaned in.

“Of course I like your legs. I like all of you. You’re bloody gorgeous.”

“Oh, please.” The blush that stole over Sherlock’s pale skin was delightful. John left off being annoyed with the ridiculous man in favor of pulling him in closer for a kiss. It went on long enough to involve a tangling of tongues, but eventually they parted for air. The flush on Sherlock had settled down to his collar bones, and John wondered how far down it went.

“John, you’re perfect.” Sherlock breathed. “I don’t really want you any other way.”

“Well, thanks.”

“You do still look like a hobbit though.”

“For the love of . . .”

“No, see here, the book has illustrations.” Sherlock reached for the paperback that had tumbled to the floor, paging through it for evidence. When he landed on the picture of the dwarves and the hobbit outside the dragon’s door, he stopped.

“Honestly, this is just silly,” John said. “I don’t . . .”

“John, look.” Sherlock thrust the open page into his face.

“Yeah?” John turned it the right way round. “Oh, it looks like the picture from the Sir Boast A Lot story.”

“Yes, but there’s a difference. There are curly shapes for the words above the door in this picture. It was something different in ours.”

“Oh, you’re right, God. I think I left it in the kitchen.”

When John had retrieved the story, they were able to lay the pictures on the small coffee table side by side to compare. The illustrations were almost exactly alike except that in their story, the inscription over the door looked like a pattern of dots.

“I wonder what it means.” John scratched at his eyebrow.

“Oh.” Sherlock felt that wonderful sensation when something crucial slid into place. He leapt up and headed for the bookcase, searching through the shelves books for the last thing he needed. With a small cry of triumph, he returned holding a dictionary of Braille in his hand.

“Oh, the pattern is Braille,” John said. “Clever you.”

“I wasn’t clever earlier. I knew it looked familiar, but it just didn’t click.”

They paged through the book trying to match the shape of the dot patterns, finally realizing they were numbers. Sherlock got his laptop out, and typed in each number as they found them. When they had finished translating, they had a string of numbers, but no answer as to what it meant. Sherlock tried working out some sort of pattern to no avail.

“It’s useless, John. I don’t know what the numbers mean.” Sherlock fell back to the sofa with a huff. “Stupid, stupid . . .” he trailed off muttering, running a hand back through his hair.

“Well.” John pulled things closer to him. “Okay, we’ve got numbers, a bunch of them . . .” He peered at the drawing again. “Hey look. They seem to be in pairs. There’s a bit of space between each two.”

“Stupid, stupid . . . what?” Sherlock sat back up with start. “Pairs of number. From an illustration in a book. John, it could be a book code.”

“A what?”

“A book code. The first number designates the page and the second number is the specific word chosen. It’s ingenious. Unless you know the book being used, it’s almost impossible to crack.”

“Oh, right.” John watched as Sherlock snatched up the copy of “the Hobbit” to rifle through it. He had his doubts, but as Sherlock typed the words found, sense was actually emerging.

  
where clothes hang, tap left five times

“That could mean the cupboards downstairs where we first woke up,” John offered.

“Yes, but it could also mean one of the wardrobes in the bedroom where we’ve hung things. It’s closer, let’s start there.”

Again they stood sandwiched belly to belly outside the bedroom door waiting for it to open.

“That was good, Sherlock, really smart figuring the code out.”

“You helped as well, John.” Sherlock grinned. “Still, we can’t rest on our laurels. We’ve yet to put it to practical use.”

“Right.”

When they were finally let into the bedroom, they made a beeline for the nearest cupboard. Sherlock opened it to reveal his line of suits. They quickly pushed them aside to inspect the inside of the small space. Feeling around revealed no knobs, or indentations, no irregularities of any sort. Still they rapped along the walls in bursts of five with their knuckles. John finally found the right spot close to the floor. With a slight snick, the back wall slid aside revealing a small shallow space behind.

John looked up in shock.

“Well, what have we here?” Sherlock’s deep voice rolled out into the silence.

Inside, an array of floggers, paddles, ropes, and silk scarves in various colors hung neatly over pegs in the wall.

“Bloody hell,” John breathed. It looked like a candy shop of BDSM.

If John were truly honest with himself, he felt a rush of something hot and spiky rush through him at the sight of the bondage gear. It wasn’t a part of himself that he thought about much, but it was always there, lingering in the shadows. The idea of submitting, of letting go, letting someone else be in charge. It was a heady concept. Like a rush of cold water though, he remembered that it was Sherlock’s brother, or some other shady governmental cog who had set this up. It made his skin crawl.

“Oh, no. Just no.” John rose to his feet.

“John.” Sherlock blinked at him in surprise. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m no one’s lab rat.” John shook his head.

“Relax.” Sherlock was already reaching for the things, running his fingers over them. “We don’t have to actually USE any of these tools. We just need to search them. They might be another clue.”

John sighed. Reluctantly, he helped Sherlock empty the back of the cupboard, spreading the toys across the carpet of the bedroom floor for further inspection.

John couldn’t help the small frisson that ran up his spine at watching Sherlock pick up a flogger in his elegant fingers, snapping it against the bed with a dull thwack.

“Hmm, nothing unusual about it.” Sherlock inspected the handle, even went so far as to bite down on it.

John picked up the ropes to jolt himself out of staring at the man. They were black, and soft to the touch, but sturdy when tugged on. He found nothing unusual about them, though. They were just ropes.

Methodically they searched over each item until they had reached the conclusion that there was nothing particularly dodgy about any of them besides being proper dungeon toys. John had a crick in his back from sitting on the floor for so long. A glance at the window showed the sun was still out, and it looked like a nice day.

“Okay, I need a break. Let’s grab something to eat and go for a walk.” John was expecting resistance, but Sherlock simply grinned at him.

“Excellent idea. Shake the cobwebs out. Sometimes all you need is a change of scenery for a fresh perspective.”

They ate something simple, gathered coats, and headed for the front door. After each of them had peered at the retinal scanners, the lock popped open, and they ventured out into the bright afternoon light. A fresh breeze carried in the smell of the sea. John pulled in a full lungful of air, and felt more clear-headed already.

They walked easily in comfortable silence, enjoying stretching their legs as they made a circuit around the island. Sherlock continued keep an eye on the fence and the wall, but John just looked at the green grass, and the blue sky stretching over them. A long-necked sea bird flew overhead, squawking loudly, and John stopped to track its progress. Sherlock’s gaze lifted to mirror his.

“Must be nice having all that freedom,” Sherlock observed. “Come and go as you please.”

“Mmm.” John nodded. “Not like us on this island you mean.”

“Oh, perhaps I mean it on a metaphysical level. So much easier being a bird, don’t you think?” Sherlock squinted into the sun that was lowering toward the horizon.

“I suppose. Just eat, sleep and fuck.” John wrinkled his brow. “Do birds fuck?”

“Well, they don’t reproduce by parthenogenesis so I suppose they must.”

A stronger wind whipped over them and John shivered. “Let’s head back.”

Sherlock selected a movie to watch that night while John fetched a half a bottle of wine they hadn’t finished earlier and two glasses from the kitchen. 

“So what did you pick?” he asked, returning to watch Sherlock cue up the machine.

“Memento.” Sherlock joined him on the sofa. “It looked . . . not too predictable.”

“Oh, no, it’s not. It’s been ages since I saw it, but I remembered I liked it. Very twisty. It’ll be right up your alley.”

Sherlock shot him a strange look and seemed as if he might say something, but John headed him off, leaning in to kiss him before handing him his wine. “Don’t guess anything ahead of time, just watch it, okay?”

When they returned to the bedroom to sleep, John was somewhat horrified to nearly stumble on the many sex toys still spread across the floor. He’d somehow managed to forget about them. They set about gathering the collection up, dumping it onto the wardrobe floor as the back wall had managed to re-shut itself. 

John didn’t say another word about the bedroom aids, and neither did Sherlock. They rolled together under the covers and had a very satisfying mutual wank. John didn’t think he’d ever get over Sherlock’s beautiful hands. Just having them touch him shot his heart rate up. Everything about Sherlock was so more, more beautiful, more elegant, more brilliant. He wondered idly before he dropped off if Sherlock would have given him a second glance if they’d just met somewhere in London.

The next two days were fairly uneventful. Sherlock went back to his lab and John finished The Hobbit, and then found a novel he hadn’t read yet.

Finally over dinner on the second day, Sherlock drained his water glass, and looked at John. “I think we should try out some of the bondage gear.”

“What?” John put down his fork.

“You were aroused by certain parts of that story involving dominance and submission. By your own admission that’s something you’ve enjoyed in the past. Plus, the sex toys intrigued you. I think we should explore it together.”

“I don’t know about intrigued. Some of that stuff scares the crap out of me.”

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t like. It’s not a checklist.” Sherlock looked frustrated that John was being so slow. “It would be about finding out what we both like.”

“Oh, God, Sherlock, I don’t know if I want to get into all that.”

“Why not? You enjoy the fantasy of being dominated.”

John could feel his ears heat. “Well, yeah, I suppose so.”

“How does pain come into it?”

“I don’t know if it does.” John shrugged. “My girlfriend in uni, Julie, we didn’t get that far with it really. She’d handcuff me to the bed, and give me blowjob. It was really just about . . . oh I don’t know, surrendering to the moment.”

“John, don’t you trust me?”

Sherlock looked so hurt, that John scrambled to reassure him. “NO, love, no. Of course not. Okay, fine. We can try some of it. What the hell.”

“Good. We can start tonight.” Sherlock looked all together too pleased with himself.

“But does this actually interest you too? I mean you aren’t just humoring me . . . or running an experiment?”

Sherlock’s smile dropped. “Are all those things mutually exclusive?”

“No I guess not, I just wanted to make sure . . .”

“Isn’t this what lovers do?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Experiment to see what pleases them?”

“Alright, yeah. Of course they do.”

“Good, then it’s settled. Do we have any more of those chocolate biscuits?”

“Yes. We do.” John smiled fondly at him. “Finish your veg first, though.”

***

John’s nervousness returned when they had adjourned to the bedroom. Sherlock looked so excited though, and John had to admit that just the idea of it had him half-hard in his trousers. They quickly sorted past the floggers, settling on a paddle and the lengths of rope to try.

“What about the things in your bedside table?” Sherlock asked.

“Oh, right.” John moved to place his hand down on the scanner, and the drawer popped open. He transferred the lube, condoms, hand-cuffs and vibrating dildo to the table’s top.

“What do you want to use from that?”

“Erm, hand cuffs to start and see how it goes?”

“Do we need a safeword?”

John looked at Sherlock as if he’d grown two heads.

“Isn’t that the done thing?”

“Yeah, I suppose it can be, but I don’t really fancy anything that intense.” John licked his lips. “How about I just say stop if I want to stop.”

“That works.” Sherlock nodded.

“How should we . . .”

“Take your clothes off and lie on the bed.” Sherlock hadn’t raised his voice but the tone had taken on a hint of steel that had John peeling off his clothes and lying on the bed before he’d thought twice about it.

“Good, John. Well done.”

John felt something swell in him even though all he’d done was undress and lie down. Sherlock moved slowly, but with purpose, attaching the padded, leather hand cuffs to one of John’s wrists. He threaded the chain through a slat in the headboard before pulling John's other arm up to cuff it alongside. When all seemed secure, he made sure the key was on his bedside table where he could see it.

John licked his lips as he watched Sherlock unwinding a length of rope. He tied it around one of his ankles in a complicated knot, then passing it under the bed, pulled it over to secure the other one. When he pulled on the end, the rope drew taut, effectively pinning John’s legs to the mattress.

“How is that?” Sherlock’s deep, honeyed voice rumbled out soothingly.

“Yeah, good.” John flexed his limbs, finding himself well caught. Rather than struggle, he relaxed into the feeling.

“You need to tell me if your shoulder bothers you.” Sherlock lay a hand gently to the scar on John’s upper chest. “Why don’t we try a number system. One to ten. If all is well it’s a ten, if you need to stop, it’s close to one. Alright?”

“Okay.”

“Do you want a blindfold?”

“Not this time.”

Ah. Sherlock’s mind went off on several tangents. Already John was agreeing to future sessions. That was promising.

Sherlock ran his fingers over John, just the tips, gently stroking him in long passes. This is your body, it’s connected. John’s eyes slid closed.

When he passed over John’s armpit, the man twitched. Ah, ticklish there. Sherlock made a point to avoid the area on his next stroke. He skirted any typical erogenous zones as well, running over the planes of John’s chest, the softness of his belly, the rough fur of his legs. He watched in fascination as John’s cock darkened and swelled.

“What’s the number?” Sherlock asked.

“Um, ten.” John’s voice was already sluggish.

“I’m picking up the paddle.” Sherlock warned waiting to see if John replied. When none was forthcoming, he lifted the small leather thing and used it to stroke over John, almost as if he were covering him with paint.

John’s breathing hitched.

The first strike was light, against the inside of John’s thigh. John startled but said nothing. Sherlock continued dropping light smacks against John’s thighs, inner and outer, along his flank. They left a satisfying bloom on John’s skin.

John writhed in his bonds, pressing his lips tight to remain silent.

“Nuuumbeeer?” Sherlock drawled near his ear.

“Um, ten,” John breathed.

Sherlock reared back and dropped a harder crack against John’s right inner thigh. John finally made a noise at that, deep in his throat.

“Number?”

“Five.”

Ah, too much. Sherlock backed off, dropping the toy. He returned to tracing John’s body with his hand, this time leaning in with a firmer touch, soothing the reddened flesh. John’s cock twitched. With his next pass, Sherlock brushed fingers across John’s ball sack. He was rewarded with a small groan.

“Just a moment.” Sherlock lay a hand to John’s leg as he moved aside to retrieve the lube, a condom, and the inexplicably purple vibrating dildo. He set all on the bed.

I’m releasing your legs so I can have better access to you. John nodded as Sherlock loosened the knots on one leg and freed it, leaving the rope to trail from his other ankle. Pushing John’s legs up in a vee, Sherlock moved in closer. He coated his fingers with slick from the bottle before sliding them between John’s crease seeking the pucker within. A finger slipped inside easily, curling forward.

“Nnngggg.” John bit his lip.

“No, let me hear you.”

Sherlock slipped another finger inside, and allowed a rhythm to form as he rocked his hand into John, pleased when his lover moaned appreciatively.

“How’s your shoulder?”

“Hunugnf?”

“Your shoulder, okay?”

“mmmmm . . . okay.”

“I’m getting the vibrator.”

John gave something like a nod.

Sherlock removed his fingers from John. Plucking the dildo from the bed, he quickly sheathed it in a condom, and applied a liberal dollop of lube to coat.

“Incoming.” Sherlock smiled as he set the toy to John’s arse. After a few gentle pushes, he managed to slide it home.

John grunted in response. Sherlock kept a grounding hand to John’s thigh as he carefully pulled the toy out and slid it back in. He leaned in and licked a stripe over one of John’s nipples.

John thrashed his head back and forth over the duvet, his breath now coming in harsh pants.

“You like that don’t you? Like having your arse stretched open?” Sherlock pitched his voice as low as it would go. “I have to tell you, I love seeing you like this, John. Completely under my control.” Sherlock flicked the button that turned the vibrations on.

John arched off the bed.

“You’re a mess aren’t you? Begging for it. In fact, why don’t you beg for me. Do you want me to stop, John?”

“Noooo, god, noo.”

“I wonder if you could come from this alone.” Sherlock angled the vibrator to better hit John’s prostrate. John had already begun an on-going keening. It upped in volume.

John’s cock strained against his stomach, hard and flushed. It looked as if it were fairly crying out for a touch. Sherlock ignored it as much as he ignored the throb in his own pants. John looked as though he were in pain though, writhing over the bed.

“I need a number John. One to ten.”

“Ssseven . . . I need, oh I need . . .”

Sherlock shut the vibrator off. John’s ragged breath fell harsh in the resulting silence.

“You want to come, don’t you?”

“Mmmmm, god.” John bit at his lower lip again. “Please.”

“Tell me when you’re getting close.” Sherlock flipped the switch and set the toy buzzing again.

John writhed over the bed.

“Make noise for me, John, make noise and I’ll let you come.”

A symphony of grunts, and groans, and delicious noises of near pain issued from John as Sherlock rotated the toy slowly inside him. Sherlock placed a hand on his hip. He could feel the vibrations coursing through John.

“I need a number. How do you feel?”

“Fucking . . . fuck . . . ‘leven.”

“Sorry eleven wasn’t part of the initial parameters, but I’ll take that as a positive.” Sherlock drank in the writhing form that was John. He looked nearly edible with a fine sheen of sweat over him, and a gorgeous flush across his chest. Taking pity on him, Sherlock let a finger swipe along his needy erection.

“Gonna, oh god, gonna . . .”

When Sherlock turned off the toy, John unleashed such a variety of curses, Sherlock couldn't help being impressed.

“Oh no. You’re going to need to be more patient than that.”

“Hnnngggg.” John whined through his nose.

Sherlock set the vibrator going again, before grabbing the lube to slick up his fingers. He leaned forward to take John’s cock in hand, sliding the foreskin along his steely length. John made an unearthly sound of relief.

“Come for me, John. Come for me.” Sherlock rumbled.

John sobbed when his orgasm finally rolled over him, pumping white stripes over his belly up to his chest.

“Oh, GOD, stop, stop.”

Sherlock lost no time in switching off the vibrator, and removing it to toss aside. He shucked his trousers and pants off in one movement, finally allowed himself to take care of his own aching erection. Climbing over John, he pressed against him, sliding his cock through the mess on his belly, enjoying the sheer heat of him. Quickly he stuttered out his own release, adding to the mess.

When the earth had stopped quaking, Sherlock rolled to the side to lie curled against John. The man had gone charmingly boneless. Sherlock petted over him, soothing him as he came back to himself.

“Number?” Sherlock whispered.

“God, I don’t know. I don’t.” John’s eyes remained tightly closed as he furrowed his brow, eyebrows nearly meeting.

“Shh, shhh, it’s alright.” Sherlock smoothed a hand over John’s side until he had settled again.

When John finally opened his eyes, they had gone liquid. He had never looked more gorgeous.

“I love you.” John smiled.

Sherlock wasn’t sure there was enough room in his heart to contain the feeling that rose over him. “John,” he choked. “I . . . too.”

“Would you mind getting my hands free?” John rattled at the hand cuffs.

“Yes. Yes, of course.” Sherlock hastened to find the key to release him. As he unlocked John’s first wrist, Sherlock realized the slat of the headboard was wiggling loose in his hand. He quickly unlocked the other cuff, and let John reclaim the use of his arms.

John groaned as he pulled them back down, rubbing his wrists to bring circulation back.

“I think we broke the bed.” Sherlock worried at the strip of wood.

“Oh, well. I suppose we can consider it collateral damage.” John huffed a laugh.

Sherlock made a small cry when the slat slid open and a metal cylinder fell into his palm.

“What? What is it?”

“It was hidden in the headboard,” Sherlock said, sliding down the bed to show John his find. It was small and thin, not unlike a pill carrier. Further examination revealed a top that screwed off.

“God, now what?” John leaned up on one elbow to watch.

Sherlock pulled the cylinder open, and found a curled piece of paper inside. He coaxed it out with his fingers, and spread it flat to read . . . Who you really are.

“What the hell?” John squinted at the message. “What does that mean?”

“No idea. I think tomorrow will be a better time to tackle this though.” Sherlock transferred the tube and the paper to his table.

“Yeah. God, I’m wrung out.” John passed a hand over his face.

Sherlock reached out to grip John’s shoulder. “Thank you for sharing that with me.”

“God, you’re thanking me?” John shook his head. “That was incredible. I think I hit the wall I came so hard.”

Suddenly Sherlock couldn’t stand being so far away from John. He scooted down the bed to gather him close.

John hummed a contented sound as Sherlock tugged him into place, still seeming more rag doll than human. Sherlock squeezed him tight, breathing in the smell of his hair, his throat suddenly feeling tight. When he could speak again, he said in a remarkably steady tone, “Well, that seems like an experiment that bears repeating.”

John huffed a laugh. “Yes, I guess it does.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We welcome your kind comments and kudos. 😊❤️😊


	24. Sense of Touch, by alexxphoenix42

Who you really are. The phrase continued to vex them.

“Oh, what in Christ does it mean?” John scoffed over breakfast.

“No, don’t get frustrated. It’s a puzzle that can be solved like any other.” Sherlock raised an eloquent eyebrow. “You just need to take logical steps to get there.”

“Okay, where do we start?”

“Who are you, John?”

“A doctor?”

“Good, what else?”

“A soldier.”

“What else have you done, how else do you define yourself?”

“I dunno, I played rugby in uni. Don’t know if that defines me.”

“You also learned the clarinet in school, and began dating in sixth form. You went through a string of girlfriends, before having a secret liaison with one of your male rugby mates. This caused you to break off dating women until . . .”

“Oi, enough about me,” John could feel his face heating. “What about you?”

“Alright.” Sherlock paused a moment. “Genius, consulting detective, high functioning sociopath . . . “

“Okay, that’s bullshit. I don’t know what kind of crap diagnoses you got as a child, but that’s not you. Next.”

“Violinist.”

“Yes, what else?”

“A graduate chemist.”

“Really?”

“Well, I didn’t spring into the world fully formed.” Sherlock spooned up a bite of his cooling porridge. “I had to do something with my youth.”

“Oxford?” John lifted an eyebrow.

“Cambridge,” Sherlock said and downed the bite with a grimace.

“I wish I’d known you then. I bet you looked all swotty in your school jumper and chinos.”

“John, I never wore that at uni.” Sherlock looked uncomfortable.

“What did you wear?”

“Shirts, trousers . . . clothes.” Sherlock flapped a hand.

“Jeans?” John propped his chin up on a fist.

“On occasion.”

“Oh, God.” John licked his lips. “I would have enjoyed peeling you out of them. I bet you were gorgeous.”

“I wasn’t gorgeous. I was a mess.”

“Oh, no, baby, I bet you were beating them off with a stick.”

“Beating who, what?”

“Admirers? Fans?”

Sherlock shook his head.

“I think you just didn’t notice them.” John’s eyes went soft. “I can’t believe people didn’t notice you.”

“I wouldn’t know.” Sherlock shrugged “I tried to put as much distance between me and other people as possible. I found them mildly annoying at best.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” John shook his head.

“You’re thinking I didn’t give it enough of a fair go?” Sherlock quirked an eyebrow. “Dating . . . relationships . . . sex?” He drew out the last word challengingly.

“I’m thinking the people at Cambridge were idiots.” John rose to move around the table. He gathered Sherlock against him. Sherlock allowed it, turning to press his face against John’s shirt as John carded fingers through the curls at his nape.

“You’ve had at least twenty sexual partners.” Came somewhat muffled from John’s belly.

John felt himself go over hot. He forced a laugh. “Yeah, that sounds about right. I guess I was a bit of a slag.”

“There’s nothing wrong with being sexually active.” Sherlock pulled back slightly to peer at him. “You tended to date the women for several months at a time, but the men were one-offs, generally one night stands picked up in bars.”

“God, how do you DO that?”

“You weren’t altogether comfortable with being seen as bisexual.” Sherlock’s voice had gone more hesitant.

“Erm . . .” John blew out a breath. He stepped back, ran a hand through his hair as he looked to the floor.

“John, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .”

“No, you’re right.” John’s eyes lifted to meet Sherlock’s. “You are. I wasn’t.”

“It’s okay . . .”

“No, it isn’t okay.” John licked his lips. “Sherlock, I’m not ashamed of us. I wouldn’t want to hide us if we ever . . . once we were back in London.”

“Alright.” Something had shuttered in Sherlock’s expression.

“Sherlock come back to bed with me.” John held out a hand. “If you’ve nothing on today.”

“No, I’ve a few experiments going, but it’s nothing time sensitive.”

“Bed?” John tilted his head, a soft look stealing over his face.

“Of course.” Sherlock smiled.

***

They lolled most of the day away in bed, starting off with a fantastic shag, bringing each other off with sweetly familiar strokes. John used the toilet afterwards, returning with a wet flannel and a bottle of bath oil. He wiped Sherlock clean and then waggled the oil in front of him.

“Roll over, love and I’ll give you a massage.”

“Alright.” Sherlock complied readily enough, sliding onto his stomach to give John access to the acres of pale, smooth skin along his back.

John climbed over to straddle Sherlock’s thighs, and poured a small pool of oil into his palm. He rubbed his hands together, and leaned in to rub his slicked hands along Sherlock’s shoulders digging in just enough for Sherlock to feel it.

Sherlock let out a sigh of air, and John smiled. He continued stroking along neck and shoulder, upper arm, smoothing his hands over each muscle group, reacquainting himself with how they all fit together. Sherlock gave out a series of moans as John found knots of tension around the tall man’s shoulder blades, and pressed in with his thumbs to smooth them away.

“God, Jooohn,” Sherlock groaned. His massage voice was very like his sex voice, and John’s cock twitched in appreciation. He scooted back to move his strokes down that gorgeous milk-pale skin, following his knobby spine until he had reached the twin globes of Sherlock’s arse.

“Mmm, you lovely man,” John murmured, ghosting his fingertips over the curve of his bum.

Sherlock groaned from deep in his chest as John set to kneading the muscles of his lush backside in earnest. When John felt Sherlock had melted into the sheets beneath him, he poured a bit more oil on his palms, he continued down to work over the muscles of Sherlock’s long whipcord thighs and calves.

“God, I love your feet,” John breathed squeezing one between his hands.

“Mmmff?”

“They’re beautiful, long and elegant like the rest of you.” John moved in to lick a stripe over Sherlock's instep. “Never had a foot fetish or anything before, but . . .” He huffed a laugh.

“Mmm.”

John lifted one of Sherlock’s feet to mouth over his toes, and Sherlock giggled, a lovely low-pitched sound. When he took the toes into his mouth to suck, the laughter deepened further into a groan. The exploration over Sherlock’s feet morphed into another round of love making, this time sweet and slow. They finally left the bedroom only when John’s stomach growls became distracting.

“I can’t believe you don’t get hungry,” John complained as they stood pressed against the door, waiting for it to open. His stomach growled again as if in punctuation. John’s mouth twitched a smile.

“I do, just not as often as you do.”

When the lock released, they made their way to the kitchen. John rummaged through the cupboard while Sherlock put on water for tea. John pulled two likely packets of food from the shelf after Sherlock agreed to a chicken with tomatoes thing. Later at the table, John had nearly devoured his chili while Sherlock was still picking over his plate, working to separate the various elements before consuming any of it.

“I can see you aren’t one for stew.”

Sherlock blushed. “I don’t like blobs of tomato.”

“No, no, it’s fine.” John raised a placating hand. “I just wish we had more of what you liked.”

“I’m not that picky.” He speared a chicken bit defiantly.

“Well, even I’m getting a bit tired of food in a bag.” John scraped up the last in his bowl. “God, I didn’t think I’d miss take-out so much, but there was an Indian place down the street, did a mean lamb vindaloo. Mmmm. I could murder an order of that with some naan.”

Sherlock looked up with a smile. “I have a favorite Chinese place. I used to stop by least once a week. They stayed open until 2 am on weekends.”

“Ah, glad to hear you DID eat occasionally.” John took his dish to the sink, and busied himself making another cup of tea before returning to the table.

“The Arsenals,” John said after a contemplative sip.

“What’s that?” Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.

“The Arsenals, football team?” John leaned in with a laugh, setting his elbows to the table top. “Don’t tell me you’ve deleted football?”

“I remember football. I just don’t bother myself with the details. What about the team?”

“I keep wondering how they’re doing this season. It’s weird, not getting any news of any sort here. I mean I don’t know what’s going on with wars, or elections or natural disasters, but it’s not knowing how the Arsenals are doing that bothers me the most. I always kept an ear out.”

“Ah, so being a sports fan is part of who you are.”

“Oh, yeah, right. You think that might be a clue?”

“It’s possible.” Sherlock looked excited.

“Alright so I watch footie, I played rubgy . . . naw, I dunno. What about you?"

“I watched Wimbledon a few times on the telly,” Sherlock admitted.

“Hmm, it isn’t much to work with.” John took another sip from his cup.

“No, you’re right.” Sherlock pushed back his plate half-finished, giving it up for lost.

“Maybe there’s something in the games room? We could poke around and find things we like there.” John shrugged. “It might lead to something.” 

“Well, we’ve looked at it all before, but there’s no harm in trying again.” 

After finishing up in the kitchen, they moved to the games room. They had already looked through the books, so they pawed through the DVDs, and the games and the sheet music. Nothing yielding any new clues about who they really were.

“What about your lab?” John flopped into a chair. “You’re a scientist. That’s part of who you are.”

Sherlock gave a half shrug. “I’ve been all over the place, but perhaps you can come to it with a fresh eye.”

John followed him to the lab room. He poked around the glassware, and equipment, listened to Sherlock explain what he was currently working on, and then admitted defeat. Nothing unusual jumped out from the usual. With a sigh and a kiss to Sherlock’s cheek, John left him to his work.

He passed by the freezers, on his way out, opening them to check on their food supplies. By and large, the best things left to them were still frozen. John poked around, making a mental inventory of what was there. He said a silent prayer of thanks that they weren’t still reduced to wandering around in the dark hunting for packets of snacks, when an idea occurred to him – a picnic of sorts. It would be something fun to do, and a way to get Sherlock to try some new foods. He chose some things to thaw, taking them back to the kitchen, then poked through their packaged goods to add to his collection.

When Sherlock finally emerged in the evening, John was ready to put his plan into action.

“John.” Sherlock looked almost surprised to find him reading in the kitchen. “There you are.”

“Well, it’s not like I have too many places to go.” John smiled. “Are you hungry, then?”

“I could eat,” Sherlock said, looking about. “What’s on?”

“Well, I had an idea for that, something new to try.”

“New is good. What?”

“A blind supper.”

“And that would be?” Sherlock cocked his head to the side.

“Something my sister, Harry, told me about. She went to a restaurant once that did it. You eat a meal completely in the dark, can’t see a thing. They get blind waiters and everything. It’s supposed to focus your senses so you enjoy the food more.”

“Sounds intriguing, but what are the practical . . .”

“I’ve got it all set up. A picnic in the clue box room. We can turn off the light and it’ll be pitch black in there. I’ll feed you.”

“Okay.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “But what if I don’t like something?”

“Then you don’t have to eat anymore of it, berk.” John laughed at the face Sherlock pulled. “I’ll bring you a bowl so you can spit out whatever you don’t like,” he added.

“Fine, do I get to feed you too?”

“Sure, why don’t you choose some things.”

Once Sherlock had filled a few bowls and set them on a tray, they moved to the room with the large central cube that served as a hallway in their living space. Sherlock smiled at the cushions and the box of food that John had already set up for them. When Sherlock had settled himself with his back against the cube, John moved to douse the lights. The complete darkness was unsettling.

“Wow, can’t see a thing.” John moved as gingerly as he could away from the wall.

“Well, that is rather the idea,” Sherlock drawled.

“Keep talking, I’ll follow your voice.” John reached out with his hands.

“I’m here, right here, in front of you. Wouldn’t it be nice if humans could use echolocation as well as bats?”

John felt an unreasonable relief when his hands found the edge of the large cube and then moved to connect with a curly head of hair.

“I don’t want to step on the food.”

“Relax. I’ve got my tray in my lap and yours is on the far side of your cushion. Just go slowly.”

John moved as carefully as he could, relieved when he sank down to the cushion without a mishap. He reached out to find his box of food and slid it closer beside him.

“Okay, then. Who goes first?” John grinned in the dark. The whole thing was a bit silly, but a rush of excitement tingled over him just the same.

“You can since it was your idea.” Sherlock’s deep chocolate of a voice was even more potent in the dark.

“Alright.” Using only his sense of touch, John groped around over his bowls and cups, until he’d oriented himself, trying to remember what he’d put where. He lifted a small bowl and sniffed. Perfect. Carefully John lifted a bit of the soft food from the cup and leaned in toward Sherlock, using his other hand to pat over the man until he’d found his face. It was a delight to smooth fingers over Sherlock’s jaw until he found his plump lips already parted for him. Carefully, he fed Sherlock the bite, enjoying the feeling of his lips and tongue taking it from his hand.

“Mmm. Peach?” Sherlock rumbled.

“Yeah, I found some in the freezer. Want another?”

“Yes.”

John proceeded to feed Sherlock the rest of the peach slices in the bowl, guiding each one to his waiting mouth.

“Alright, your turn.”

John leaned forward, and opened his mouth. It only took Sherlock’s clever fingers a few moments to find him. He popped something onto John’s tongue that exploded in a metallic, salty brine when he bit down. It wasn’t his favorite, but it was interesting. He moved it around in his mouth as he chewed, focusing on the feel and taste of it.

“Oyster,” John proclaimed after swallowing.

“Clever boy. Want another?”

“It was a bit salty. Maybe something else?”

“Of course. Don’t bite down.” Sherlock’s hand returned to feed John something he had to suck off the offered finger, this one creamy and deliciously sweet.

“Mmm, custard.” John swirled his tongue around the digit. “Are we having dessert first?”

“Life is short, eat dessert first – isn’t that what they say?” Sherlock’s voice had gone a bit breathy.

John giggled, and found something else to feed Sherlock. “Here, you next. Open up.” He proceeded to feed Sherlock a small jar of olives one after the other as the man mouthed them from his fingertips, groaning his appreciation. Delightful. Somehow John got a sense of where Sherlock was in the dark even without echolocation. He just knew.

They took turns feeding each other, lingering over the fingers bringing each bite of sweet, or savory carefully scooped up and delivered in the comforting womb of dark. When Sherlock dripped jam down John’s chin, there was no other course but for Sherlock to lean in and lick it from his face, giving sticky kisses sliding down his neck.

They leaned back into the cushions to have each other then, peeling away their clothes to uncover warm skin. John scooped up something and smeared it over Sherlock, licking away what turned out to be honey with gusto. Sherlock giggled and then groaned as John’s tongue made it down to his cock, hot and hard, reaching up to John in the blackness. John wrapped a hand around the base, licking slow, broad stripes up the shaft as Sherlock mumbled encouragement, his hand coming up to tangle in John’s hair.

Like a prayer, John opened wide to receive the length of him into his mouth. He relaxed his throat, losing himself utterly in a universe that was nothing but the heft of this cock on his tongue, the musky smell of his lover laced with the sweet of honey, and the movement of them together, pushing and pulling, divine clockwork. Sherlock swelled even further, giving a strangled gasp as the only warning before the salty gush of Sherlock’s orgasm filled his mouth. John swallowed reverently, pulling back to lick him clean as Sherlock’s pulses came to an end.

“God, John, come here.” Sherlock pulled John into his arms until their mouths could connect. Sherlock kissed him greedily, licking into him, no doubt tasting himself on John’s welcoming tongue.

Sherlock’s hand found John’s cock still achingly hard between them and gently squeezed.

“Naughty boy, playing with your food,” he growled by John’s ear, sucking at the sensitive spot behind his jaw as he fondled John balls, returning to massage over his cock.

John gasped at the rush of sensation that flowed unchecked over his body, letting it simply sweep him away. He whimpered slightly as it stopped, the warmth of Sherlock disappearing as he rolled away.

“Shh, I’m right back.” The comforting hand returned to his cock, now wet, better sliding along his length.

“John, sweet man, beautiful boy,” Sherlock murmured along John’s neck between nips and licks as his hand worked magic pumping over John below. The pleasure rolled over him in waves pulling him under until John exploded, crying out his release into Sherlock’s mop of curls.

They lay together afterwards, catching their breath until the spills over their skin felt more annoying than erotic.

“Oh God, that was intense,” John breathed.

“Hmm, obviously the lack of visual cues does enhance tactile stimulus.”

“So you liked it?” John smiled, though Sherlock couldn’t see it.

“It was . . . enjoyable, but sticky.” Sherlock’s frown came through in his voice.

“Ugh, I can’t wait to see the mess we made.”

Gently they extricated themselves and made their way upright. John cursed as he stumbled over a bowl of something on his way to locate the light switch. The dim light of the room seemed shocking after the pitch black, and John had to laugh outright at the image of Sherlock blinking up at him, covered in smears of food, a cracker stuck to his side. He looked down at the mess along his own body, running a finger through his matted pubic hair to sniff.

“Christ, Sherlock, did you just bring me off with golden syrup?”

“You didn’t seem to mind at the time,” Sherlock smirked.

“No, I supposed I didn’t.” John shook his head, surveying the food they’d managed to spill across the floor. Despite the cleanup they had before them, he decided it had been worth it.

“I think it’s time for a shower,” Sherlock said, plucking off his pants still tangled around one ankle.

“God, yes.” John snorted, scratching at a patch of dried syrup that was beginning to flake off his body.

***

Sherlock went back to his experiments in the morning, and they fell into a bit of a routine over the next few days. “Who you really are” remained up in the air as a puzzle to solve. One evening, they went through the CD’s trying to play each other songs they enjoyed to see if that sparked any ideas. John ended up trying to teach Sherlock to do the Macarena, and Sherlock insisted John get the rudiments of a Tango down. It was silly fun, but nothing clue-worthy came of it.

One afternoon as Sherlock was back in his lab, John rambled a bit at loose ends, giving the kitchen sink a proper cleaning, before ending up in the games room. He flipped through the shelf of movies, trying to find something he hadn’t watched before, eventually settling on a kids’ film.

With a shrug, John popped open “Balto 2: Wolf Quest” and fed the disc into the DVD player. It was about a family of talking dogs. The father was half-wolf and touchy about it, not wanting to be singled out as different. The mum had a litter of pups with one that looked more wolf than her da. When the pups were set for adoption, and the one who looked like a wolf was passed up, John shifted uncomfortably on the sofa. Christ, it was just a cartoon. Later she ran away and the father had to fetch her from the woods. John found himself getting into it, the music wasn’t half bad. He chuckled at himself, glad Sherlock wasn’t in the room to tease him over it.

When the daughter encountered a singing mouse giving advice, John sat up. The song kept repeating “Who you really are.” John listened all the way through, excited, before running for Sherlock.

“Sherlock!”

“Hmm?” Sherlock looked up from where he was bent over his microscope. He had his safety goggles pushed back, rucking his fringe up. It reminded John how overdue they both were for a haircut.

“I think I might have found a clue.”

“Excellent.” Sherlock tore off the goggles and followed John back to the games room.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose when John first showed him the movie, but then he listened more avidly, getting out his laptop so they could copy the song’s lyrics.

You must go to the east, go to the west,  
The road is rocky and the way is far.  
It's a dangerous trail, a difficult quest,  
If you want know who you really are...

There are voices all around you,  
To comfort and to guide you.  
Fathers and teachers,  
Powerful creatures.  
And a voice that sings inside you.

Or you can turn back around,  
Run along home.  
Back to the place where your friends are.  
Perhaps that is best,  
You need the rest.  
Who wants to go on a ridiculous quest?

Unless you want to know,  
You truly want to know,  
Unless you want to know...

Who you really are.

“Fascinating.” Sherlock tapped a finger against his lip, slumping back in his chair as he considered the words on the screen.

“So, do you think it’s really a clue or just a coincidence?”

“It is possible to see patterns and connections where none exist, but there’s no harm in treating it like a clue.”

“Okay, so east, west, rocky road, far to go, dangerous trail, quest . . .” John scratched at the back of his head. “Yeah, I don’t know. Maybe we’re supposed to walk around the island again?”

“We’ve been around the island a number of times, and nothing of note has presented itself. Our trip through the maze inside though, navigating in the dark to find these rooms, that was quite a trek.”

“God, you’re right. So maybe we’re meant to go back through?”

“It’s a safe assumption.” Sherlock nodded. “But this time, we can bring the laptop, and use the light from the screen as a makeshift torch.”

“Oh bloody hell, that’s magnificent. I’d like to see all of it in the light. It’s been so weird going through it in the dark.” 

Sherlock grinned. “Let’s do it.”

The few times, they had felt their way through the dark labyrinth to fetch things left behind had felt like a chore. Now though, the thought of exploring with a light appealed to John. It was a chance to see something new.

They moved through the cube room, the floor thankfully now clean, to find the door that would take them into the maze. Sherlock opened a blank page on the laptop, and turned the screen to its brightest level. Once they had unlocked the door. Sherlock led, holding the screen before him to light the way. John blew out a whistle.

“God, there it is.”

The space wasn’t nearly as intimidating when they could see it, just a rectangular room with a number of waist-high walls bisecting it. It was easy to move about the maze guided by the light from the computer screen. John could still detect the faint sour odor of piss from when they’d been forced to make a makeshift toilet in a side of the room, but thankfully it had dissipated in the intervening months.

“So are we looking for anything in particular here?”

“Who knows? We might as well investigate whatever we can,” Sherlock said, sweeping the light from the laptop about to better illuminate parts of the room.

Beyond finding out that the walls were painted an off-white, and the partitions were a tan color, there wasn’t much else to see . John decided to make a game out of finding any snacks still left in any of the dispenser areas. Gleefully he darted about in the dim glow of the laptop, smacking his and Sherlock’s hands on any scanners they could find in the half-walls, and chortling each time a stray bag of crackers or nuts popped out.

“You never know when we might NEED this extra stuff.” John said a bit defensively, stuffing another foil packet into his pocket.

“No, by all means, go ahead.” Sherlock followed along behind him, holding the computer up to light the way, and allowing John to periodically manhandle him onto the scanners.

They repeated their explorations on the lower level of the maze as well, finding nothing more astounding than some packets of beef jerky, and a small box of dried cherries.

When it became apparent that nothing else of interest was to be found on either level of the labyrinth, and John seemed to have exhausted the snacks supply, they moved to the retinal scanners to open the hallway to the cells.

The bright light in the hallway as the door slid open was a welcome sight, and Sherlock closed the laptop with a snap. He left the computer on the floor near the door as they proceeded to open the line of cupboard doors, searching for anything they might have passed by before. Sherlock found a tie that he had abandoned in one of his storage rooms, obviously something Mycroft had snidely included in amongst his personal items. Sherlock never wore ties. He picked it up with a snort of disgust and examined the thing, but there was nothing to mark it as special in any way. He took a perverse delight in tossing it back to the cupboard floor, before stepping back to let the door slide shut.

“Find anything?” John joined him from his explorations.

“Nothing much. You?”

“Nope.” John shook his head. “Just bare cupboards.”

“Why don’t we try the holding cell area? Perhaps there’s something there.”

“Yeah, okay.”

They stood on either side of the doorway, letting the retinal scanners register them before the entranced opened. John walked in first, with Sherlock close behind.

“God, it feels like forever since we first started out here, doesn’t it?”

Sherlock glanced about at the bland walls, and simple inset doors, and huffed a small laugh. “Yes, it does.”

He couldn’t help thinking about the angry, wrapped-in-himself man who’d first arrived here, caring for nothing but escape. It seemed light years away from when he had laid eyes on John Watson and thought only of how to trick his way past the man. What a fool he’d been.

“John?” He turned toward his . . . friend? Lover? Partner? They hadn’t really come up with any terms. It hadn’t been necessary here with just the two of them. They knew what they were to each other.

John was inspecting the walls for anything they might have missed earlier. He turned back around, his brows ceased. “Hey, yeah, I’m right here, love.” He lay a comforting hand to Sherlock’s arm. “You alright?”

“Yes, it’s just . . . it’s cold in here, isn’t it?”

The facility was reasonably warm throughout all the rooms, but John had to agree there was a bit of a chill, psychological if not temperature-wise, in this clinical-looking dorm space.

“I don’t fancy staying over here any longer than we need to.” John glanced up at the brass name plates that still adorned the sides of the rooms they had both woken up in. “Look, our names. I’d forgotten about that.”

“I’d assumed you were a doctor working here when I saw your name.” The side of Sherlock’s mouth tipped up wryly as they both glanced at “Dr. John Watson.” 

“Yeah? I thought you were some fancy administrator.” John huffed a laugh.

“I think we were both clouded by preconceived notions.”

“I’d say so.” John smiled. “Who knew I’d run into such a beautiful posh boy in a place like this?” He drew Sherlock closer for a kiss that reassured them both.

When they parted, John squinted back at this nameplate. “I dunno, somehow I don’t want to leave these here. It feels like leaving a bit of ourselves behind. I’d rather take them with us.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Fine by me.” 

John reached up to see if the nameplate would come away, and was surprised when it peeled away from the wall with hardly any effort.

“Well, no worries . . .” John flipped the small sign over and stopped, surprised when he found something etched across the back: 59, 7, 16.6, N. “Oh bloody hell, look at this, Sherlock. I think we found our clue.”

“Brilliant.” Sherlock turned to peel “Mr. Sherlock Holmes” up as well, turning the small sign over to find a similar etching behind it: 5, 48, 53.3, W. “So, we were looking for who you really are in a very literal sense.”

“Har, har, har.” John snorted. “Just hilarious. But what does it mean?”

“Ah, John. It means we have another mystery to solve.” Sherlock grinned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We welcome your kind comments and kudos. 😊❤️😊


	25. Sense of Danger, by alexxphoenix42

“Wait, that looks so familiar . . .” John stared at the numbers and letters. “I think it’s . . .”

“Latitude and longitude,” Sherlock said as John finished with “ . . . coordinates.”

“Exactly!” Sherlock nodded. “I think we just found our location on a map.”

“But what good does it do us?” John narrowed his eyes. “It’s not like we’ve got a GPS tracker on us.”

“I’m not sure,” Sherlock lifted a shoulder, “but it’s still excellent information, and hopefully something we can use to our advantage.”

Another quick look around the place confirmed the name plates were the only points of interest in the boring, grey rooms. John drank some water from the sink of the bathroom before they decided to head back to their living quarters. Sherlock gathered up the laptop at the door to the maze, and popped it open to use as a guide as they moved back through the unlit space.

John gave a sigh of relief as they left the labyrinth behind, stepping back into the cube room. It was good to be back home, he thought, and had to smile at himself as Sherlock punched in the code for the door to the front rooms. When had he started thinking of this mad place as home? One glance over at the riot of dark curls beside him, and he had his answer. This man was his home now, wherever that was.

The realization shook him a bit. He and Sherlock had come on fast together. John had no way of knowing if this little hothouse romance would survive the harsh light of the outside world. God, he hoped it would. It felt secure on his end, but who knew about the other man? Sherlock would have so many more things to occupy him other than a few pieces of equipment in a lab and a broken-down, ex-army doctor when they got off the island.

“We don’t have a map or a GPS device, but we can still determine our coordinates,” Sherlock said, making a beeline for his lab when the door whooshed open.

“Okaaay, how do we do that?” John trailed after him.

“I just need a few things . . .”

John watched, somewhat baffled as Sherlock flitted about the room digging through drawers, plucking things out to make a small pile on a desktop. John lifted the protractor, looking at the bit of string, a weight, a compass, and the ruler beneath. Sherlock gave a cry of delight, returning with a hammer and a box of nails he’d unearthed from somewhere to add to his collection.

“So what’s all this, then?” John asked. “Doing a bit of remodeling, are we?”

“More like boy-scouting,” Sherlock said. “We’re going to make a sun dial and a device to determine our coordinates, see if it matches what we’ve been given.”

“Ah, alright.” John licked his lips. 

“Damn, we need to wait for mid-day for the shadows to be right, though.”

“Yeah, okay.” John tilted his head to better regard Sherlock. A waterfall of curls had spilled over his forehead, and he looked so delightfully flushed, a manic gleam dancing in his seawater eyes. John had to smile. These puzzles were good for him.

Sherlock set about making his contraption. With wood that they fetched from the woodshed, they managed to create two rough planks that Sherlock fashioned into a cross with the crossbeam attached lightly so it could rotate. He fussed for some time hammering in four protruding nails into the ends and sides of the beam and attaching the protractor in the center with a plumb line dangling from it before declaring it ready.

Thankfully the weather was mild the next day, and John enjoyed the chance to spend some time in the sun, even bringing food along and making a real picnic of it, helping Sherlock as needed. The first steps of his grand plan had involved sticking the ruler in the ground, using the weight tied on a string to make sure it was standing level. After using the compass to determine north, he scratched a small north-south line in the dirt with a nail beside it.

“When the shadow of the ruler crosses the line, we’ll know it’s noon,” Sherlock announced. “The shadows at high noon will let us determine our coordinates.”

“Excellent.” John smiled, taking a bite of his sandwich, enjoying the way Sherlock’s trousers clung to his bum as he bent over more than the lessons.

Sherlock stood and squinted at the sun before picking the spot for his quadrant contraption nearby, asking John to help him set it up.

“Alright, MacGyver,” John said, brushing crumbs off his lap as he stood.

“MacGyver?” Sherlock’s brow crinkled as he frowned.

“American telly show. I saw it when I was kid.” John smiled. “It had this bloke who could make weapons and things out of stuff lying about, bottles, gum wrappers, light bulbs . . .” he trailed off as Sherlock stared at him. “Ah, it doesn’t matter. What do we need to do?”

Sherlock showed him the spot, and John helped him dig the hole to set the cross upright, making sure it was parallel to the north-south line in the dirt. He then convinced Sherlock to join him on the blanket as they waited for noon to arrive, and eat some of the little pickles he enjoyed and half a ham sandwich.

Sherlock leapt up when the shadow of the ruler overlapped the line in the ground, fiddling with the crossbeam to align things, scribbling his findings with a notebook and pencil he’d managed to locate.

John leaned back and closed his eyes, enjoying the heat of the sun on his face, breathing in the slight tang of salt on the breeze. His belly was comfortably full, and he could hear the sound of Sherlock muttering to himself nearby. For just a moment, John felt complete right where he was. There was absolutely nowhere else he wanted or need to be. If he could just stop time and stay here forever, it would be . . .

The light behind his eyelids winked out. “John, wake up. I need your help to move the quadrant.”

John cracked an eye to find Sherlock, a riot of curls silhouetted against the sun, looming over him.

“Yeah, right, where to?”

Sherlock showed him, and dutifully John helped him drag the device up and reposition it farther along the field. They came outside every morning before noon for several days, moving the cross around the island so Sherlock could tilt the crossbeam and measure the angle between the shadows of the nails and the hanging plumb line. John admitted to not completely understanding the whole process, but simply enjoyed trailing after Sherlock, and basking in the good weather.

The rest of their days were spent in individual pursuits. Sherlock had unearthed parts of the corpse in the freezer and was busy with increasingly smelly experiments that kept John far away from his lab. Left to his own devices, John picked up the laptop and tried his hand at writing some stories. He’d done a bit of writing back in his uni days, and the hobbit and dragon tale inspired him. After a few aborted war stories, he started on an epic tale of two men trapped on an island together, loosely basing it on their own strange situation. He refused to let Sherlock read any of it until he was several chapters in, but then agreed, finding that Sherlock’s contributions greatly helped the story.

“No, John, you wouldn’t find hot springs in this area of the world, best make it closer to Iceland.”

“Right, yeah, okay.”

Still, John felt an itchiness building between his shoulder blades. He spent long moments looking out the windows as Sherlock worked in his lab, watching the clouds scuttle across the sky. He wondered what he might have done differently in his life, and if it still would have brought him into Sherlock’s path.

Sherlock seemed content to wrap himself up in his experiments for long hours. If given his druthers, Sherlock would have worked through dinner, but he agreed with John that he could be interrupted to come join him in an evening meal. If John cooked, he’d clean, no questions needed.

In bed, Sherlock reached out to him before turning off the bedside lamp. “Are you tired?” His voice was hesitant, still not used to the easy exchange between lovers.

“Never too tired for you, love,” John said.

“Do you want . . .”

“I want . . . something a little different, if you’re up for it.”

“Tell me.”

“I want you to tie me up again, but hold me down, take me from behind. A little rough.”

“Blindfold?”

John thought a moment. “Yes.”

“Do you know me?”

“No.” John felt the grin creasing his face. “I don’t think I do.”

“Excellent!” Sherlock returned the smile.

John stripped off the tee shirt and briefs he slept in, watching as Sherlock leapt up with boyish enthusiasm to fetch the supplies. Moving the covers aside, John lay himself face down over the middle of the bed, stretched out in offering. He let Sherlock manhandle each of his wrists into lengths of rope tied separately to the headboard, the slats all holding firmly. For a moment John felt like Sherlock’s quadrant contraption, and it sent a shiver down his spine. Carefully then, Sherlock looped a black silk scarf around his eyes, securing it tightly behind his head. Already John felt himself relaxing into it.

“Alright?” Sherlock’s voice came from nearby. His warm palm settled across John’s bare back.

“Yes.” John nodded, his cheek scratching on the sheet beneath him.

“You’ll tell me if you don’t like anything? Immediately?”

“Yes, yes of course.” John felt a quick spike of irritation. He wanted to stop thinking.

“Alright.” The mattress shifted as Sherlock’s weight moved off the bed. 

Footfalls and the whoosh of the door to the bathroom told John that he had left the room. He blew out a breath and willed himself to settle, relaxing into the bonds that held his wrists fast.

When the sound of the door snicking open came to him, John’s senses jumped to high alert, his ears pricked for any sound. He was disappointed when Sherlock made no noise that he could track as he crossed the carpet. After a squirmy minute, the breath caught in his throat when a pressure gripped the back of his neck and skull like a vise, driving the side of his face into the mattress.

“What have we here?” A voice like dark, liquid velvet poured over his ears. “Looks like someone left me a little present.” Fingers wrapped around to press against his throat. The grip wasn’t hard enough to cut off any air, but it certainly announced that it could if desired.

John felt the blood rushing to his cock.

“Mmmm. I like surprises.” The pressure released as long, nimble fingers moved to trail down his back, landing to cup the curve of his arse. “Especially when they’re as nice as this one.” With a quick squeeze, the fingers retreated.

John made the tiniest sound of regret.

“Oh, demanding, are we?” Sherlock’s voice continued to rumble out at some subsonic level that seemed to set John’s very cells vibrating. “Well, we can fix that. Slaves aren’t allowed to demand anything.”

The sharp crack of the paddle over the arse cheek just squeezed caught John completely off-guard. He jerked in his bonds, crying out loudly without meaning to. A hand returned to cradle the sore spot, not moving, simply offering comfort with its presence. Once John had relaxed, it was removed.

The spanking resumed, not hard, but not just for show either. Smacks alternated on each of John’s buttocks until he was writhing against the mattress, seeking any sort of friction for his throbbingly hard erection.

“Stop. Enough of that.” Sherlock’s command rang out as a hand gripped his hip, digging into his abused flesh.

John stilled his rocking pelvis with some difficulty, his panting breath harsh in his own ears.

“Here, up on your knees.” Sherlock helped John to get his legs under him, letting him rise up to knees and elbows.

The snick of a bottle top opening was followed by the cold jolt of something wet being dragged up the crack of his arse. John startled, but a soothing hand petted over his back, gentling him as the slick fingers continued to explore. A finger found the furled bud of his entrance, and worried over it, slicking it before diving in. John groaned as it retreated only to plunge back in, quickly setting up a rhythm. A stretch and slight burn told him when another finger had arrived to join it. The angle changed slightly and a burst of - oh god yes, there - sideswiped him. John pushed back, unable to hold still any longer. His untouched cock bobbed up to hit his belly, and he whimpered slightly.

The other hand slid into his hair, scratching lightly over his scalp. It sent shivery trails down his spine that blossomed suddenly into pain as a handful of hair was grabbed up and pulled, hard. John arched back into it, easing some of the pressure. He could feel the warmth of Sherlock’s body against his side, and he leaned into it, finding it grounding in the swirl of sensations. God, had he ever been this hard?

“Don’t come,” Sherlock growled by his ear. “You’re mine, and I say when you can come.”

“God, I can’t . . . I can’t . . .”

All sensation stopped as the warmth left his side. John couldn’t help the sigh of frustration. It was a bit maddening not being able to see anything. He pulled at the ropes on his wrists.

“Shhhh.” Hands were back on him, and thank all that is holy, gripping his aching cock, and balls. Senstation assaulted him as Sherlock fiddled with something, maneuvering him. John felt a squeezing where his penis met his scrotum and gasped.

“It’s the cock ring,” Sherlock purred. “It should hold you off for awhile.”

John bit his lip, adjusting to the pressure, mmm good, as fingers returned to his arse, pushing in, rocking, rocking. The pleasure washed over him but his shoulder was starting to shake holding his weight. John felt a whine building behind his teeth.

Movement came, a dipping of the mattress, Sherlock climbing over him. Slick fingers moved to be replaced by a wider, blunt force pushing in. Sherlock drove into him, John gasped as Sherlock’s cock filled him, only to retreat, and charge back in. John’s fingers gripped the sheet as he held on, absorbing the punishing thrusts threatening to send him into the headboard. Sherlock, paused, shifted a moment, and the ring constricting the base of John’s cock and his ball sack began to buzz. The vibration seemed to travel all the way up his spinal cord, shaking every last neuron on fire. John gasped.

Sherlock’s full weight returned, bearing him down, pushing, pushing until John’s legs went out and he collapsed fully onto the mattress. John felt his face mash into the bedding as the weight caged him, consumed him, pressing in on all sides. Lights exploded behind his eyes, loud noises, pain, need to move, get away. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t fucking breathe. He was breaking up, falling apart . . .

The next John knew, he was on his back, untied, in Sherlock’s lap.

“John, are you okay? John?” Sherlock ran a hand up and down along his arm.

John’s eyes fluttered open. No more blindfold. John’s throat hurt, and his nose was clogged. He ran a hand over his face. It came away wet. Shit, he’d been crying.

“What?” He blinked, trying to bring Sherlock into better focus.

“John, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I think you had a panic attack.” Sherlock’s face twisted up in concern. “Has this happened to you before?”

“God, Sherlock, I’m sorry. I didn’t think . . . it’s been awhile.” John drew in a ragged breath, still trying to get his bearings.

“It’s alright.” Sherlock gathered him closer, circling a hand over his back. “You’re safe here, you’re okay.” John felt himself relax, pressing his face against the warmth of Sherlock’s chest.

Later, when Sherlock had tidied things away, and put the bedding to rights, they lay back down to go to sleep.

“John, I’m so sorry” Sherlock turned to him in the dark. “I bodged it all up.”

“No, you didn’t. It was all me. I asked you to do that scene. I just . . . I didn’t know it was going to go tits up like that.”

“Perhaps we do need a word,” Sherlock said softly. “A safeword.”

“I dunno.” John sighed. “I felt . . . overwhelmed before I knew it.”

“I should have noticed.”

“Sherlock, stop. It happened. It’s okay . . . I don’t blame you.”

“Alright.” Sherlock’s voice was tentative, so different from his daytime tone. “Has that happened often . . .”

“Look, I don’t want to talk about it right now, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Good night, Sherlock.” John rolled onto his side to face the wall.

“Good night.” Sherlock sounded as if he wanted to add more, but didn’t.

Eventually, John drifted off to sleep.

***

Sherlock was a little formal with him the next morning, and John didn’t know what to say to set things right. They had breakfast together as usual, and then Sherlock all but fled to his experiments. John poked at his story in progress a bit, and then gave it up for a loss that morning, shutting the cover on the laptop. He just couldn’t concentrate.

He ended up popping a video into the player, a Bond flick he’d seen before and liked, but then he hardly watched that either.

Finally, before mid-day, Sherlock reappeared, needing John to help him unlock the front door to go out and continue his measurements. John sighed, trailing after Sherlock with his hands in his pockets. Sherlock stalked quickly off with his notebook ready to record another day’s numbers.

John gazed after the tall, lanky form fiddling with his contraption for awhile, a fondness sweeping over him before turning to watch the clouds. One of them looked exactly like Canada. A crash and a shout had him turning quickly back to Sherlock. The cross was on the ground, and the man was kicking it while cursing it loudly.

“Stupid fucking, sodding fuck . . .”

“Hey.” John hurried over, alarmed. “What happened?”

“This is useless.” Sherlock sucked in a breath as he stepped back from his device. He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “It won’t work.”

“Hey now, we can set it back up . . .”

“Didn’t you hear? It. Won’t. Work.” Sherlock rounded on him. “I should have admitted it from the start. This isn’t the right solution.” He moved away to pace in a tight track, waving his arms. “I can’t get an accurate enough reading for it to be meaningful. I know the coordinates given are on the island, but there’s no way I can pinpoint it to any degree of accuracy . . . this was useless.” He moved back to give the cross another swift kick, miscalculated, and promptly fell on his arse.

John tried not to laugh. Sherlock look so put out, John held in his giggles to offer him a hand.

“Come on, let’s go have lunch. We’ll think of something else later.”

Sherlock allowed himself to be pulled upright, and only grousing slightly, followed John back to the building.

After lunch, John suggested playing some board games, and Sherlock readily agreed. They played a game of chess where Sherlock promptly beat the pants off of John, and suitably cheered, agreed to a few rounds of Scrabble where they decided any word was acceptable if they could make a good enough argument for it.

Afterwards, Sherlock played John a full concert on his violin, and seemed back to his usual self by the time dinner rolled around. John unearthed a package of éclairs from the freezer that they split with tea instead of having anything sensible. When Sherlock commented on John’s right to his medical license slipping, he just unearthed a blob of cream from his pastry and held it out for Sherlock to lick off his finger.

“Rules are made to be broken occasionally.” He shrugged.

Clean-up was minimal, and John pulled Sherlock into a hug when they were done. He suggested they go to bed early that night, punctuating the suggestion with a line of kisses pressed along Sherlock’s jaw.

“Alright.” Sherlock smiled softly down at him.

They stripped quickly, and crawled under the duvet, slotting easily together for slow, lingering kisses, and a tender bout of lovemaking that left them lying boneless over the sheets.

“Hey, join me in the bath?” John tipped his head toward the loo when the stickiness grew uncomfortable.

“An excellent suggestion.” Sherlock scratched at the mess drying on his belly.

The bathroom held both a shower, and a large bath that only John had used thus far. He leaned over to place the stopper before turning the water on, adding a squirt of gel to get bubbles swirling over the top. When it was full, John climbed in, gesturing for Sherlock to join him. Sherlock stepped over the edge, settling himself between John’s legs in a series of movements that should have been awkward but instead just looked charmingly elegant. Sherlock blew out a breath as he relaxed back to lie on John’s chest. John wrapped his arms around him and closed his eyes, laying his head on the rim of the bath. They lay quietly, letting the heat of the water unspool any lingering tension.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock rumbled at length, “at my behavior today. It was unbecoming.”

“Oh, love, it’s fine. You don’t have to be buttoned-up all the time.” John ducked his head to drop a kiss at Sherlock’s temple just below his hairline. His tangle of curls relaxed in the steam, hanging heavier around his face. “I thought your device was very clever.”

“Not so clever,” Sherlock snorted. “I remembered that it was only meant to give accurate readings on the vernal or autumnal equinox at best. Since we’re clearly into May, it wasn’t going to work anyway. What we NEED is a map or an actual GPS device. I was an idiot to try.”

“Hey, hey. Don’t call my boyfriend an idiot. I’ll have you know he’s a proper genius.”

“Boyfriend?” Sherlock shifted in John’s arms to rotate, sloshing water as he moved to face John. The bathtub gave a bit of a creak, and the grout along the tiles joining it to the wall cracked.

“Oh bugger. Maybe two in the bath wasn’t such a good idea.” John reached out to worry at the new line.

“John . . .” Sherlock was sitting back, excited.

As John’s fingers pushed at the tiles, one swung easily away from the wall, revealing the shallow recess inside.

“What the . . .” John reached in to find the small object lying inside. He couldn’t help the smile that spread over his face as he pulled it out.

“Well, now that’s getting a bit scary.” John glanced around the room suddenly worried about cameras again. “Did you say we need a GPS device?”

Sherlock accepted the small plastic box from him with something like reverence, quickly moving to hold it over the edge of the tub away from the water. His mercury eyes danced as he thumbed the device to life. “John, this is perfect.”

It was still light out, the evenings lingering before true darkness set this late in the spring. Sherlock insisted on getting dressed and going out immediately to track the coordinates with their new device. John agreed, of course he did, delighting in Sherlock’s bubbling excitement. He was like a little boy with a new toy on Christmas morning. They slipped out into the dusk, Sherlock eagerly leading the way. It didn’t take him long to follow the coordinates. He exclaimed in wonder when he had it, and hurried, John at his heels, to the woodshed.

“John, this is it. Whatever we’re meant to find, it’s here.” He looked up breathlessly.

“Okay, then.” John ran his eyes over the small structure. “What are we looking for?”

“Everything, anything. Something that stands out.”

Sherlock pocketed the device, and they set to work going over every inch of the shed. It was made of wood, more rectangular than square, with a large window in the back wall to let in light, but perfectly ordinary as far as John could see. They tapped over the walls inside and out finding nothing before Sherlock suggested they move the wood pile. They set up an assembly line, Sherlock grabbing the logs and passing them to John who chucked them to the ground outside. Thankfully they were only half-way done with the pile, when Sherlock joyously uncovered a panel set in the floor.

“John, look!”

John crowded round as Sherlock scrabbled at it, finding a small indentation that allowed him to pull it open. The electronic display they uncovered lit up the shed with an otherworldly green light. Sherlock’s grin split his face in the eerie glow. “John, we found it,” he breathed.

“Yes, we did.”

A series of buttons seemed to control the electricity in the building, but the one Sherlock zeroed in on was the one marked Fence. He clicked it off. They looked at each other, realizing that a low-grade hum that had been with them since they’d come to the island had gone silent.

“God. . .” John felt a frisson of energy skate over the nape of his neck. He peered down at the display, looking at the other buttons, when he realized something was printed on the underside of the lid. He pushed it back as far as he could to peer at it. “Sherlock . . .”

“It’s a map.” Sherlock crouched closer to see. “I think, yes, I know where this is. Come on.”

Sherlock nearly leapt from the shed, John close behind. They crossed the field quickly, moving toward the wall, which if things were as they appeared, was no longer charged. The light was slipping as they reached the wall. John squinted in the gloom at a place where the electric wires were set some distance from the stone wall beyond. Sherlock held out a hand to stop him as John made to touch the wires.

“Wait, let’s be sure.” He turned to scrabble at the ground, finding a few clods of dirt that he tossed at the fence. Nothing. “Come on.” Sherlock’s voice fairly crackled.

They easily pushed the wires apart now that the current was off, scrambling between to walk the few paces to reach the stone wall.

“Christ, there it is.” John reached out to lay his hand to it, the stone still a bit warm from the day.

“Come on.” Sherlock moved ahead, feeling his way along the wall when he suddenly blipped out of sight.

“What . . . Sherlock?” John cried out, hurrying after the suddenly missing detective.

Sherlock’s head popped out. “There’s an opening here, come on.”

“Why didn’t we see this before?” John asked following him through the break in the wall. “We’ve walked the whole island.” He rounded the corner to find himself between two walls like a hedgerow maze.

“It’s an optical illusion, overlapping walls. You can’t see it until you get close.

“Fucking hell, all his time . . .”

“Well, we couldn’t get to it until the electric fence was off.”

“Right, still.”

They emerged from the small corridor into a briny breeze off the water. By the dying light, John could see they were standing on a cliff, the rush of waves beating at a beach some distance below.

John took his first full breath of freedom. It was a heady feeling.

“John, look!” Sherlock grabbed his arm, pointing to the beach. 

When John turned, he could easily see it, a tall orange pillar, glowing incongruously in the last rays of the setting sun, standing out like a beacon amidst the dark greys and browns of the island.

“We’ve got to get down there.”

“No, come on. It’s getting dark, why don’t we come back in the morning when we can actually see. . .”

“No time, no time for that,” Sherlock said, dashing toward the edge like the madman he was. “I’m sure there must be a way down . . .”

“No, wait . . .” John started after him, but Sherlock was already there, pinwheeling his arms, his big coat silhouetted against the last streaks of red in the dark sky for a moment before he slipped and tumbled over.

“Sherlock . . .” The cry tore from John’s throat as he realized he was already too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We welcome your kind comments and kudos. 😊❤️😊


	26. Sense of Completion, by alexxphoenix42

“Sherlock, Goddamnit, fucking, bloody hell . . .” 

Sherlock blinked, struggling to catch his breath as the form of John appeared at the edge of the precipice silhouetted against the darkening sky.

“Are you hurt? Fucking hell, tell me if you’re hurt.” John lay on his belly to better hang over the lip, and peer at him.

Sherlock shifted carefully on the outcropping of rock that he’d fallen on, only a few meters down the side of the cliff. He ran down a mental checklist on himself, stretching each limb carefully.

“No, I’m fine. I think I’m alright,” Sherlock called, silently thanking the thickness of his coat for sparing him from any greater injury than contusions along his right side.

“Good, ‘cause I’m going to fucking murder you, you bloody idiot. What did you mean, falling off a cliff? You could have been fucking killed!”

“It wasn’t my intention to fall.” Sherlock sat up gingerly, rubbing a newly-discovered sore spot on the side of his skull.

“Come on, can you stand?”

John ripped off his jacket and knotted one sleeve around his wrist, dangling the rest of it down for Sherlock to use as a rope. Through grit, and sheer determination, John managed to haul Sherlock back up the side of the rock face to safety. John patted over him, breathless, seemingly trying to touch all of him at once.

“I’m fine, John, I’m fine.” Sherlock tried to reassure him, batting him off.

Together they stumbled through the falling dark to find their way back to the building. Once they’d cleared the path through the wall, the light through the front windows remained a beacon in the night to guide them home.

John looked grim as he moved Sherlock through to the bathroom where the first aid kit lay. He insisted Sherlock strip to his pants, and sit on the edge of the bath so he could examine him. He held up fingers for Sherlock to track, palpitated over his torso, and checked each limb for range of motion before finally pronouncing him hale.

“Well, good,” Sherlock huffed, “I told you I’m . . .”

John stepped back, his hand pressed over his face. Only when his shoulders began heaving did Sherlock realize the man was crying.

“John?” He reached a hand out hesitantly.

“Oh my God, Sherlock. Oh my God. I thought you were dead.”

Sherlock rose and pulled John into his arms. John gulped wetly against his chest as a shiver ran through him.

“John, no . . . no.” Sherlock pulled back slightly to kiss the wet off John’s face, making a game of peppering over him with little smooches until John laughed, a half-broken sound that was better than the noises he had been making.

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said in a rush. “I didn’t mean to worry you. It was dark, I know we should have waited like you said, I just . . .”

“Oh God, come here.” John pulled him down into a heated snog that whited out all higher brain function. Sherlock clutched at him, hanging on for dear life, dizzy as John dragged him to the bedroom.

John practically threw Sherlock onto the bed, climbing over him to continue their drugging kisses. Sherlock writhed at the scrape of John’s clothing over his bare flesh, but he ached for closer contact.

“John.” Sherlock tugged at the shirt still separating him from being able to touch the man’s skin.

John broke off, pulling back to yank his clothes away, cursing as he had to lean back to tug his shoes off. Sherlock lay panting until John returned, sliding in over him to kiss him again like he wanted to push him through the mattress. John’s steely erection slid over Sherlock’s still clothed one, and he groaned at the feeling of it.

“God, want you,” John mumbled between searing kisses. “Want you so bad.”

“Yes, please.”

John shifted, moving to the side.

“Here, lift.”

Sherlock obligingly tilted his pelvis up, ignoring his sore hip as John neatly shucked his briefs down and off. John fumbled at the bedside table, and returned to mouth at his neck as slick fingers moved down past his balls, sliding into his cleft. In no time, John was pumping three of them two-knuckles deep into Sherlock’s arse. God, yes.

It was a brief shock when John moved, and fingers were finally replaced with his hard cock sliding in, filling him, until John bottomed out, flush against him. John bowed his head, chest heaving as he struggled to wait, giving Sherlock time to adjust.

“Fuck me, John,” Sherlock gasped.

“God, yes.”

Sherlock ignored the pain along his side when John spread his legs wider to drive into him, snapping his hips with each thrust. The soreness of his body melted away under the waves of insistent pleasure as John pounded into him.

“Christ, yes, fuck, you’re mine . . . all mine.” John’s words dissolved into a series of guttural noises as he increased his pace.

“Yes, John.” Sherlock threw his head back, gasping for breath as John filled him, surrounded him, immolated him. He bounced slightly on the mattress with the force of John’s thrusts, the sound of the headboard smacking against the wall a distant counterpoint to their labored breaths.

“Can’t lose, can’t lose you . . .” John dropped more of his weight onto Sherlock, the drag of his belly bringing needed friction to Sherlock’s aching cock trapped between them.

He strained upward meeting each of John’s thrusts, a humming building under his skin . . . suddenly it was all too much. Sherlock fell apart with a cry, pumping out hot splashes. John drove into him with a few more thrusts before grunting out his own release. He collapsed heavily over Sherlock, lying as if stunned, while Sherlock waited for the world to coalesce back around them. Sherlock squeezed his eyes tight feeling a tear sliding out from underneath the lids. Others joined.

“Christ, Sherlock, I’ve hurt you.” The pain in John’s voice just made the wet come faster.

“No.” Sherlock swallowed past the lump in his throat, managing to shake his head. “No.” Something dark and sharp was rising in him though.

“C’mere, baby.” John slid to the side, pulling Sherlock into his arms with him. He cradled Sherlock against his chest, tucking his head under his chin. “Shhhh.”

Sherlock had no words for the feeling of being held safe in John’s arms. He let himself relax by degrees.

“John, I’m sorry. Before . . . I would take chances . . . I never really worried. I mean if I were to die, who would really care?”

“Well.” John swallowed. “It’s all different now, isn’t it?

“Yes, it is.”

John continued to hold him, stroking over his back until sleep crept up to claim him.

“Sherlock, I love you. Don’t you ever forget that.” Came whispered fiercely by his ear before he drifted off.

***

Although John usually insisted they both eat something for breakfast, the next morning he was just as eager to get down to the beach as Sherlock was. After a quick wash, they threw on clothes and headed out.

It was much easier to find their way across the field, climb between the deactivated wires, and walk through the corridor between the walls by daylight. The view of the ocean was no less spectacular for a second viewing.

“Wow, it’s just lovely.” John inhaled deeply, looking about.

The incongruent orange pillar on the beach was closer to the water with the morning tide, but still easily visible. Sherlock felt as if he could reach out and pluck it up in one hand, but of course it was at least a kilometer away.

“Come on, let’s find a way down.” Sherlock led the way along the cliff, staying well back from the lip for John’s sake.

He was somewhat chagrined to find a well-marked staircase cut into the face of the rock not twenty meters along the way. It even had metal railings affixed to the side for safety’s sake.

“Well, thank God. I didn’t fancy doing any death-defying rock climbing today,” John huffed.

They made their way easily down to the beach, picking their way across the the rocky shore to the softer sand.

“This is so weird,” John said looking back at the cliff, “being out like this. I keep expecting some big rover balls to come bouncing out to take us back.”

“What?” Sherlock raised an annoyed eyebrow.

“You know like in that telly show, The Prisoner, with Patrick McGoohan?”

“Popular culture. I might have known.” Sherlock shrugged it off.

“Right, sorry, not your area.”

Sherlock was the first to reach the pillar with John right behind.

It was a large cylinder a bit taller than Sherlock, and seemed to be made of some kind of metal painted over in bright orange. When he rapped a knuckle against it, it rang hollow. Immediately Sherlock began to search over its surface.

“There has to be a door, a panel, something . . .” Sherlock ran his hands along the top of the cylinder.

“Yeah, alright.” John squatted down to examine the base.

“Aha.” Sherlock’s fingers landed on a button set flush with the curve of the metal. One side of the cylinder slid open. A number of things lay inside stacked neatly on the shelves within, but it was the mobile at eye-height that grabbed his attention first.

“Wow. Look at all this.” John straightened beside him, reaching out to poke at several things on a lower shelf.

Sherlock pulled out the phone, and after a modicum of trial and error managed to switch it on. Sherlock was disgusted to see Mycroft’s smug face filling the screen as it flickered to life. John crowded round to watch.

“Well, congratulations, brother, dear, to both you and to Doctor Watson. You’ve both obviously managed to avoid killing yourselves or each other to reach this point. I’m happy to report that at the end of your stay of . . .”

The image of Mycroft froze as a computerized voice cut in to relay “three months, one week, four days, and twelve hours . . .”

Mycroft’s recorded message continued “ . . . you are now considered fit to return to society at large. Sherlock, my generous offer still stands for employment, but you are free to chose or discard the opportunity as you see fit. Your accounts will be available to you once more as soon as you reach the mainland. And Doctor Watson . . .”

Eerily enough, his eyes flickered to the side that John was standing on. “You will find a meaningful sum has been deposited into your account with the Bank of England. You are free to go wherever you wish once you have been transported off the island facility. Please make yourselves ready to depart. Transport should arrive within twenty-four hours. Good day, gentlemen.” With that, the phone shut off.

Sherlock jabbed at the buttons, but the device seemed well and truly dead. With a curse, he dashed it to the ground.

“Hey, hey, we might be able to get this working up at the house!” John bent to retrieve it from the muck, wiping it clean on the hem of his jumper.

“Despite its power being off, the phone undoubtedly contains a number of tracking and surveillance devices.

“Oh, well then.” John stepped forward to place the phone carefully back on its shelf in the pillar.

The side of Sherlock’s mouth twitched up despite himself. His John. So queen and country. Though was it right to call him his John? In all honesty, they’d only known each other a few months, and in very unnatural situations. There was no reason to believe that John’s interest in him would hold once they were immersed in the many distractions of the world at large.

John continued to rummage inside the storage space, making an inventory. “Oh, look there’s a tent here, a lantern, firewood, sleeping bags.” He turned clutching a sealed bag labeled as marshmallows. “I believe we’re meant to have a campout.” He grinned.

They retreated to the facility to gather up the things they wanted to take with them.

“Christ, I can’t believe we’re actually leaving.” John surveyed the front room with his hands on his hips. “I think I’ll actually miss the place.”

“No need to get overly sentimental. It was, no matter how well decked out, a prison after all.”

“Yeah, I suppose you’re right.” John’s brow creased in a way that made Sherlock want to soothe it, but there was packing to be done, and laundry to run through the dryer.

Sherlock made sure to tidy up his experiments in the lab space. No doubt Mycroft would have minions sent in to ready the facility for its next use, but he felt loathe to leave anything personal lying about. He gathered what notes seemed useful before moving to meet John in the kitchen. A feast of epic proportions was already laid out over the table as John brought the last of something over from the stove.

“Are we meant to carry the contents of the kitchen away in our bellies?” Sherlock blinked at the spread.

“Well, there were things I was saving for a special occasion, but since we’re leaving, I thought we might as well go for it.” John shrugged, returning to fetch a pitcher of something vaguely reddish from the work top. “Bit of a celebration, yeah?”

Sherlock hummed as he seated himself before the cornucopia, accepting the drink that John passed him. He sniffed at it. “What is it?”

“Sort of a sangria, I suppose. I mixed juice with the open wine.”

Sherlock took a sip. “Hmm, not half bad, really.”

“Ta. Come on eat something. Big day ahead.”

Sherlock felt an odd frisson of fear skitter over him at that, but he pushed it firmly away. John held up his drink in toast. “To freedom.” He smiled.

“Freedom.” Sherlock echoed, raising his own glass to touch rims with John’s.

Sherlock surprised himself, eating more than he thought he could. The blinis wrapped around some sort of cheese filling were especially good.

“Thank you, John, this was delicious.”

“Yeah, of course.”

There were things to be said, but somehow Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to break the pleasant mood at the table with uncomfortable topics. Sherlock had no idea what was to come when they stepped off the island. If these were to be his last moments with John, he wanted to savor them.

“More tea?” John raised his eyebrows.

“Yes, thank you.”

It took several trips to move their luggage down to the edge of the beach, left in the shelter of several large rocks.

John seemed a bit subdued, but he managed to rib Sherlock about the number of bags of clothes he had to transport.

“Poncy bastard.” He complained shifting the case slung over his back. “How many pairs of shoes does one bloke actually need?”

“I can carry it if it’s too much.”

“Oh, stop, it’s fine.” John knocked his hand away. “Ignore me. What else do I have to do today but help carry your FIVE pairs of dress shoes to the beach?”

Sherlock hmmphed, but John smiled at him so indulgently, he was hard-pressed to take actual offense. It didn’t help that John’s possessions had only taken one trip down. Sherlock suddenly had visions of bringing John to his old tailor, and having him outfitted in a set of new suits, something cut to show off his broad shoulders, and nicely-rounded arse. It would be lovely to see him in clothes other than the shapeless jumpers and jeans he currently possessed. Sherlock squelched the vision immediately. There was no reason to be making untenable plans.

Once they had cleared the facility of their things, John suggested a walk around the beach. They found the walkable portion only extended half way around the island before being cut off by sheer cliff face. It left them ample space for exploring, shoes off, and trousers rolled up, splashing in the waves, poking in some tidal pools, and collecting driftwood left by the tide. Sherlock couldn’t remember a more enjoyable afternoon spent seaside.

When they finally returned to the spot with the orange pillar, John collapsed to the ground with a laugh.

“My old therapist kept suggesting I take a trip to the shore, and I kept shrugging her off. If only she’d known all I needed was to be kidnapped, spend a season in a dystopian prison, and meet a gorgeous genius to spend a day at the beach. Easy peasy.”

A smile tugged at Sherlock’s mouth as he dropped beside John. “This was . . . nice. I haven’t been to the sea in years.”

John grunted, and they sat quietly watching the waves and the birds darting across the sky in companionable silence for some time.

“Well, my arse is freezing and I need the loo.” John roused beside him. “What say we go get cleaned up, and find something for dinner?”

Sherlock readily agreed, and they fished out a change of clothing from their bags to take back with them.

Sherlock jumped in the shower first while John used the toilet, then left him to the water to get dressed. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, toweling his hair dry when John appeared in the bedroom with nothing but a towel slung around his waist. He looked magnificent, like some Greek god risen from the mists, all rosy and golden, his wet hair swept back. He posed dramatically, grinning.

“Oh, you got dressed.” John’s face fell.

“Well, that could be easily remedied.” Sherlock smiled as John dropped his covering with a flourish and proceeded to climb starkers over him, pushing him back with a growl as he spread them both over the bed. They reached for each other just a bit desperately, fingers grasping, lips crashing, drinking each other down like sweet wine. John rolled them to their sides, his hands going to Sherlock’s buttons. “God, I want you all the time.”

“Yes, oh yes.” Sherlock chased after his mouth, pulling him back into the dance of lips and teeth and tongues.

Afterwards, when the earth stopped moving, and they were simply lying together enjoying the quiet joy of warm skin pressed together, John’s stomach rumbled.

“Christ, I know we had a huge lunch, but that’s the most walking I’ve done in months. I’m starving.”

“I’m hungry too,” Sherlock admitted.

“Definitely time for dinner.”

They rolled out of bed to clean up and get dressed, finding their dirty clothes in the bathroom to carry with them. John insisted on making the bed even though Sherlock pointed out someone would be along to clean it later.

They stood pressed together at the door, waiting the minute for it to open one last time.

John cleared his throat. “It was a good bed. I’ll give them that.”

“Yes, it was.” Sherlock stared at it across the room, the white duvet looking bit rumpled where John had hastily tugged it into place. He almost wanted to drag John back to it, pull the covers over their heads and refuse to leave, but, no. Someone was coming for them soon. It was time to go.

John put water on for tea while Sherlock searched the pantry. He wanted to find something special, something that told John how much he’d come to mean to him over the last few months, but nothing seemed to fit the bill. He emerged a minute later with a few packets of the pasta thing that John seemed to like the most, and John pulled out a pot to heat it on the stove top.

After eating, they did the washing up, making sure things were properly put away. Sherlock felt a sudden melancholy wash over him then, a nostalgia in advance for the teapot and dishes he and John had used together for so many months. It reminded Sherlock so much of saying goodbye to his grandmother’s at the end of holidays when he needed to return to school. So strong was the impression that for a moment, Sherlock fancied he caught the scent of the lavender from her summer garden in his nose. He chided himself that it was most likely just the smell of the dish soap they were using. John seemed similarly lost in his thoughts as they made a last circuit of the place, looking for anything they’d left behind. He stopped them at the door, doubling back to snag a last bottle of wine from the kitchen before declaring it was time to head out.

The sun was dipping toward the horizon as they made their way back to the shore. Sherlock opened the orange cylinder, and they unloaded the things they’d need from inside. They had a moment of hilarity trying to set the tent up, but then they had it, staking the ends securely to keep it standing upright. This side of the island was definitely less windy, their beach set back in a small cove, but still, a light breeze played over them.

John tossed the sleeping bags inside, and then they set to building a bonfire above the water line with the wood from inside the storage pod, and the driftwood they’d gathered earlier. Sherlock used the lighter and starter fluid found with the supplies, and set to making their artfully stacked pile of kindling burn. John had teased him a bit at his preciseness in laying the fire, but Sherlock had spent half a childhood on a beach and he lectured John on how to best stack the logs smallest to largest.

It was magic of the most mundane sort, but lovely all the same as the wood finally caught and flared, yellow flames crackling to life. They settled on a tarp they’d found to keep out the chill of the damp ground, and John uncorked the wine with the bottle opener he’d nicked.

“I hope they don’t mind I took this from the house,” John snorted, wrenching the cork out.

“I doubt we’ll be held accountable for normal wear and tear on the facilities.” Sherlock accepted the bottle of wine when John passed it his way, taking a long draught from it.

“I took the vibrating dildo too,” John confessed.

Sherlock chuckled. “Too good to leave behind?”

“Well, yeah, but Christ, it was IN me. It’s not like I wanted to just leave it lying about . . . after.”

“Quite right.” Sherlock nodded.

John unearthed two toasting forks and the bag of marshmallows, and they enjoyed roasting them over their fire as the coals deepened. While Sherlock experimented on the best way to achieve uniformly browned sides on his marshmallows, John chased the heat, catching all of his on fire. Inevitably he had to blow out the blue flames to leave a bubbling, scorched mess on his fork. When Sherlock reprimanded his carelessness, John just laughed.

“So what? I like them crispy.”

They ate their fill of burned sugar, getting their fingers and mouths sticky, and John passed the wine again, the taste sour after so much concentrated sweet. Sherlock added another log to the fire as it settled into orange, grateful for the warmth. They lay back on their elbows, watching the impressive splash of stars overhead in the dark velvet of the sky.

“Christ, you won’t see stars like this in London,” John said with some reverence in his voice. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

“Gorgeous,” Sherlock smiled slightly, watching the play of light and shadow over John’s upturned face. The fire popped as a burning log shifted within it. Beautiful. John was simply achingly beautiful.

“I can’t believe we’ll be back in London tomorrow,” John said, taking another swallow of wine.

“If all goes to plan, yes, we should be.”

John pushed more upright, growing more pensive as he stared into the depths of the flames.

“Sherlock, you know . . . I wasn’t doing very well in London, before I ended up here.”

“I’d gathered as much.” Sherlock knew it was rude to stare, but he couldn’t stop himself from devouring John’s profile.

“I was diagnosed with PTSD, and suicidal ideation after invaliding home.”

“Mmm.” Sherlock winced. It wasn’t anything he hadn't already deduced, but it hurt to hear.

“They weren’t wrong. I’d lost everything that meant anything to me.” John wiped his hand over his face. “It was just one grey day after another. I couldn’t think of any reason to stick around.”

“And now?” He had to ask.

“God, now it’s like night and day.” John turned to look at him. “It’s like I’ve done a 180.”

“I’m glad. You deserve to be better, John. You deserve everything. I have to admit . . .” Sherlock cleared his throat gone suddenly clogged. “I was on my third overdose when Mycroft had me sectioned this time.”

“Jesus, Sherlock.” John’s voice had gone reed thin.

“I was smarter than any of the doctors Mycroft dredged up for me. I thought I knew it all, how much to take, how to stay on top of it. Then . . .” He glanced back toward the fire. “Then I got so tired of it all. I just didn’t care about anything anymore. What was the point?”

“God.” John scooted closer. “As much as I hated waking up here, I think it was the best thing for both of us.”

Sherlock nodded. He forced himself to say it then. “John, you’re bisexual, with a strong tendency toward forming long-term romantic connections with women exclusively.”

“Yeah, true. In the past, but . . .”

“Also I know we haven’t been completely sexually compatible. If you were looking forward to dating when you got back to London, to finding a woman to settle down with, I wouldn’t hold you to . . .”

“Wait a minute! What the hell, Sherlock? If you’re talking about the bondage, that wasn’t your fault. It’s something we can work on . . . together . . . or not. Look, it doesn’t really matter. I don't want anyone else. I love you. I told you that I loved you.”

“People say things in bed they don’t always mean. All those endorphins.” Sherlock flapped a hand.

“Sherlock do you love me?” John gripped his shoulder. 

Sherlock turned to face him. John’s face, so alive, glowed by the light of the dancing flames.

“Yes. More than anything.” Sherlock breathed out at once.

“Well, then it’s bloody settled. You’re stuck with me.”

“John.” Sherlock reached out as John gathered him in. He clutched at the back of his beloved’s jacket, burying his face in John’s hair. 

“I’m not going anywhere unless you want me to.”

“No, never.” Sherlock inhaled John’s scent, pulling it deeply into his lungs.

“Sherlock, come to bed with me. I need to hold you.”

“Yes, please.”

Holding the lantern to guide them, Sherlock led the way to the tent. John helped him lay out the sleeping bags, unzipping them flat to lie between. They stripped off their layers, fumbling in their haste. When at last they rolled together, John wrapped Sherlock in his arms, laying kisses wherever he could reach.

“God, you’re everything to me, Sherlock. Full stop. Everything.”

“Yes, you too. Everything.” Sherlock seemed to have lost the ability to form complete sentences, but John didn’t seem to mind. Thankfully, soon their lips were busy enough that words were no longer needed at all.

Later, as Sherlock lay basking in the sound of John’s deep breathing, and the rhythmic slap of the waves outside, it occurred to him that if he had ever thought he knew what happiness was in his life before, it had been a flicker, a mere shadow to the feeling now filling him to the brim and spilling over. He snugged closer to the furnace that was John’s perfect body and drifted off secure in the notion that whatever tomorrow might bring, he would not be facing it alone.

Sherlock blinked awake to sunshine filtering in through the thin tent walls. The space was luminous like a cocoon made of light encasing them in their own little world. John was still asleep, sprawled beside him, and Sherlock would have been content to lie and watch him sleep for ages, but a full bladder would not be ignored. Quietly, Sherlock pulled on some clothes, and stepped outside, barefoot, absorbing the shock of the chill ground. He made his way to the water line, startling several birds away as he stumbled toward the waves. He pulled himself out, and watched as the stream of urine caught the sunlight arcing into the water. A flash of something moving on the horizon snagged his eye. A boat. Sherlock finished quickly, and hurried back to wake John.

They had their things assembled, ready to greet what appeared to be a simple fishing boat as it neared the cove. The boat launched a small dingy to reach the shore, two very ordinary-looking men haling them jovially as they approached.

“Good morning! Heard you blokes needed a lift,” the older man called as they climbed ashore. The younger one, most likely his son, helped him tug the boat up out of the waves.

“Aye, that’s right.” John squinted at them, smiling boyishly. “Honeymoon’s over, time to get back to work.” He flashed a wink at Sherlock, and it brought such a flush of affection for his love, that Sherlock had to step forward and kiss him. The sailors paid them no mind as they set to work hauling their luggage, and it settled something inside Sherlock. They were a couple now. A real couple that others would see together as simply a matter of fact.

Sherlock wasn’t sure if their hosts worked for Mycroft or were merely what they appeared to be, hired locals, and would be handing them off to higher-ups at the next stop. It didn’t really matter either way. They settled themselves into the craft and pushed off, heading back to the larger boat. When all was secure and they were on their way, the men calling to each other behind them, Sherlock and John stood at the railing. They lingered, watching avidly as the island receded into the distance.

“God, it’s not that big is it?” John sounded disappointed.

“Only a few kilometers long,” Sherlock agreed.

“It was our whole world for awhile.”

“Yes.” Sherlock smiled softly. “While I don’t condone Mycroft’s manipulations, I can’t be angry with the results.” Sherlock caught John’s hand in his own, lifting it to drop a kiss to his knuckles. “I love you, John.”

“I love you too.” John’s smile was dazzling in the bright sunlight.

They glanced back, watching until the island became a mere dot on the horizon before moving. Hand in hand, they turned to find a drier spot to sit, ready for whatever new adventures might be arriving to greet them.

...

_The End. Or is it..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for reading. We hope you’ve enjoyed all of the different ways Sherlock’s and John’s story could have played out. If you have another possible ending in mind, we’d love to have you share it. The [Our Divinest Senses Alternative Endings Collection](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/Our_Divinest_Senses_Alternative_Endings/profile) is open and waiting for your contribution.
> 
> We welcome your kind comments and kudos. 😊❤️😊


End file.
